Songs for Our Duchess (Short Story)

On November 5, 2025November 5, 2025 By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial1 Comment

A stone-built great hall extends in long perspective. Narrow arched windows high on the left wall admit pale daylight that falls in slanted beams through dust-laden air. At the center, a low dais supports a heavy oak-and-iron throne with a tall backboard carved with a bestial crest; short spikes edge the armrests. A fur pelt drapes over the seat. A longsword rests upright against the throne’s left arm. The floor is rough flagstone, and a dark, dried stain marks the step of the dais.

Courtiers occupy the side aisles, leaving a clear central path to the throne. Most wear dark cloaks and layered wool; a few armored guards stand among them. Wall sconces hold lit candles and torches that flicker in the still air. Red banners bearing a heraldic creature hang between the windows and along the opposite wall. Thick stone columns support the vaulted ceiling overhead.

Standing before the throne is a gigantic figure—Bogdana Avalune. Her hulking frame towers above the assembled court, fair-skinned and lean-muscled beneath her attire. Long, tousled black hair falls past scarred shoulders. Brown, almond-shaped eyes survey the hall. She wears a deep-crimson structured bodice that contrasts with fitted black leather trousers and rugged knee-high combat boots. A steel collar embellished with black diamonds and silver spikes encircles her throat.

“The lute-player approaches. Good. I’ve been anticipating this meeting,” she says, her voice carrying through the chamber.

She turns and lowers herself onto the throne, settling back against the carved wood. The fur pelt shifts beneath her weight. Her scarred hands rest on the spiked armrests.

Murmurs ripple through the courtiers along the aisles—hushed, nervous whispers.

The great doors at the far end open. A young man enters and begins walking down the central aisle. He is short, with an athletic, lean build. Round eyes survey the throne room as he walks. Short wavy brown hair frames his face. He wears a traveler’s tunic, soft brown shoes, a plain leather belt.

Joel Overberus stops on the red carpet that leads to the throne. He glances briefly toward the courtiers, then fixes his gaze on the massive figure occupying the seat of power. From within his traveling cloak, he produces a lute. His fingers find the strings, plucking a melody as he begins to sing:

“Mistress of the night, ruler of the world. Malicious tongues speak of demonic influences bringing her highness to this world, yet her beautiful features, enhanced by scars, speak of the divine. Wider than two men, taller than all, capable of mowing down whole armies by her naked self as her huge dong swings. Duchess Bogdana Avalune herself, inviting a lowly traveling minstrel to her domains! To what do I owe the honor?”

His fingers tighten on the strings, setting a taut note that hangs in the air.

Bogdana’s gaze holds steady on the young musician.

Joel’s fingers move across the lute strings again, plucking effortlessly. He begins his second verse:

“I’ve met many folks throughout the lands, even lands abroad, and I can tell those who have known the duchess by the bowed way they walk. Broken and conquered, too shameful to speak about their memories. And yet there are some, women and men alike, that react to Bogdana’s name with a dreamy sigh, even though they bear the scars their duchess blessed them with. Nowhere else in the breadth of this world could anyone find a ruler with such a personal care for their subjects. One they shall never forget.”

His fingers set a teasing tone. The notes fade into the vaulted space.

Still she says nothing. The wait stretches.

Joel closes his eyes. His fingers weave a melodic phrase across the strings.

“Even to my lowly ears came the news of a portent that happened mayhap a year ago. An evening when Bogdana, ruler of the night, was hanging out at a balcony when she saw luminous balls in the sky. She shook her tremendous fist at them and screamed, ‘Don’t just waltz around in the air, you fiends! Come at me!’ And so they did! The three luminous balls, a flying vehicle they turned out to be, descended and shot a beam of light at our duchess. But this beam didn’t hurt her; instead, it attracted her inside the ship! There, she met three green-skinned, five-eyed creatures from another world! They told Bogdana that they came from a star many leagues above. They wanted to show our duchess around, but she had no time for nonsense from another world, so she started punching heads until every foreign fiend was gone. Then the vehicle crashed into some hills, and exploded. But Bogdana’s majestic frame stepped out of the wreck and the flames. She merely dusted off her leather pants before walking back home.”

The young musician’s fingers shift across the strings, drawing out a different quality of sound—mellower, almost contemplative. His voice softens.

“Yet at the end of the day, when night falls on the duchess’ domain, when the wounded have retreated to their hovels and all the seed has been spent, Bogdana Avalune, unique in the world, retires to her peace among paper and dried ink. Books upon books, knowledge of all ages, topics that most mortals will never know, won’t even wonder about. Beyond the lowly mortals that crane their necks to look up at her majesty, there exist realms that perhaps not even her highness’ might may fully know.”

He plays a final melodic phrase. The notes cascade and fade. His fingers still on the strings. The lute falls silent, and he lowers it to his side.

The silence stretches through the hall.

“Good. Very good, Joel Overberus,” she says. “You’ve done your research, haven’t you? Those weren’t improvised verses—you’ve listened to the whispers, collected the stories, woven them into something approaching art.”

She places her palms flat on the armrests and pushes herself upward, rising to her full height. She towers above the assembled court, her head well above the tall backboard. The candlelight casts her shadow long across the flagstones.

“Three songs,” she continues. “The first established my physical supremacy—scars as divine beauty, my size, my power, even my royal cock. Flattering, accurate, and bold. The second revealed understanding of my psychological impact—the broken and the devoted, those too ashamed to speak and those who sigh at my name. You recognized that terror and desire are two sides of the same coin where Bogdana is concerned.”

She moves forward. Her boot lands on the first step of the dais. The impact echoes through the stone hall. She descends another step, then another. Each footfall reverberates in the vaulted space.

“The third? Pure mythology. Aliens from the stars, cosmic battles, fabricated grandeur. But that’s exactly what legend-making requires, isn’t it? Truth becomes myth becomes immortality.”

She reaches the bottom of the dais and pauses on the red carpet. She stands perhaps fifteen paces from Joel, looking down at him.

“And then your final verse. Books and knowledge, realms beyond mortal understanding. You saw past the violence to the library, to the scholar beneath the tyrant. Very perceptive. So tell me, lute-player—did you come here hoping to leave alive? Or did you accept that performing for the Duchess of the Dark Motherland might be your final act?”

Joel shifts his weight. He executes a deep, elaborate bow—his right arm sweeping outward, his torso bending forward, his head lowering. He holds the position for a moment, then straightens.

“Mother Goddess, as a knight’s terror and hope is to one day face and vanquish a dragon, such is the terror and hope of an artist to find themselves before the most magnificent, and frankly terrifying, patroness of the arts of the whole Forgotten Kingdoms,” he says. “After hearing the tales, listening to the rumors, only the mad would dare to come willingly even if summoned. But nothing but pure madness prompts artists to insist on their trade. So, Duchess Bogdana Avalune called for a lowly musician such as me, and I came. If you decided to make this my final act, I would regret the pain, surely, but more so I’d regret the many songs I would have failed to create. It would be absurd to resist in any case. None can stand against your might.”

Bogdana takes another step forward. Then another. She closes the distance until she stands directly before him. Joel tilts his head back, craning his neck upward to maintain eye contact.

The duchess’ scarred face looms above him, blocking the torchlight from the sconces behind her. The scent of musk and leather fills the space between them.

“Madness, you say?” Bogdana’s voice drops lower. “Yes. I recognize that particular madness, Joel Overberus. The compulsion that drives artists to pursue their craft regardless of consequence.” She pauses. “You valued the songs you haven’t yet written more than the pain I might inflict. That’s truth. I respect truth. And you acknowledged my might without false bravado or pathetic groveling. That’s wisdom. I respect wisdom.”

Bogdana leans down slightly, bringing her face closer to his upturned one. Her long black hair falls forward over her shoulders.

“So tell me, lute-player—are you prepared to accept a commission from the Duchess of the Dark Motherland? To create songs that will echo through taverns and courts for generations? To make Bogdana Avalune immortal in music?”

Joel’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down. A boyish smile forms on his lips.

“Well, Duchess of the Dark Motherland, Sovereign of the Night, I know trick questions when they flow through my ears,” he says. “Am I prepared to accept a commission from Bogdana Avalune herself? There is no such thing as saying no, is there? Either I submit to your command, or I flee. And if I ran, I would wonder forever, assuming I kept my head, about the terror and glory of obeying your desire.”

He shifts his weight.

“As to whether I can make you immortal, as a humble citizen of your domains, one who now stands small and trembling before your musky, divine-demonic might, I truly wonder if you are physically able to die, whether of old age or any other cause. I’m sure that hundreds if not thousands of soldiers who charged at you wondered so as they lay bleeding on the ground.”

His smile widens slightly.

“Will I help with my arts in this endeavor for immortality? Surely! My concerns are of a more let’s say prosaic nature. Shall I serve you tea in your library as we speak about the wonders of the world at midnight? Or shall I start buying diapers for my inevitable incontinence?”

Several courtiers shift. The air feels charged.

Bogdana’s hand rises. Her fingers curl around Joel’s chin, the thumb resting against his jawline. The grip is firm, deliberate.

“Tea in my library at midnight. You’ve earned that much, lute-player,” she says. Her thumb brushes across his jawline in a slow movement. “Though I make no promises about your continence remaining intact. Bogdana takes what she wants, when she wants it. But first—yes, first we’ll discuss your commission properly. The songs you’ll create, the legacy you’ll build for me. You’ve demonstrated your research, your skill, your understanding of what drives me. Now I want to know what you envision. How will Joel Overberus immortalize the Duchess of the Dark Motherland? What verses will echo through taverns for generations? What melody will make them whisper my name with that perfect blend of terror and desire you sang about so beautifully?”

Her fingers tighten on his chin. The increased pressure tilts his face further upward.

“And don’t bore me with false modesty or safe answers. You came here accepting the madness of your profession. Show me that madness now. Tell me something bold.”

Joel’s eyes hold hers despite the grip on his chin.

“Mother Goddess, a version of Bogdana Avalune already travels through words, and sometimes music, across the breadth of the Forgotten Kingdoms,” he says, his voice steady despite the large fingers gripping his chin. “But in the case that a supreme being like yourself could actually perish, wouldn’t it be a tragedy if that ghost of Bogdana Avalune, the one being spoken about in town, in the shadows, would be the one to endure? I believe the true duchess remains unknown. She’s the one who breathes in dark, cold nights, seated at a balcony and staring at the stars. The one who puts on glasses to read the treatises brought over from distant kingdoms. The one who lies spent and sweaty after a profound defloration and sees inside her mind even darker holes growing far below. That duchess should be most remembered, I believe. And for that, I need to meet and know her. The Bogdana Avalune that exists when there’s nothing worth left to conquer.”

The hall falls quiet.

Bogdana’s fingers release his chin. Her hand drops to her side. She takes a single step backward, creating distance between them. Her eyes remain fixed on him, studying.

“You want to know the Bogdana Avalune that exists when there’s nothing worth left to conquer?” she says. “Bold question, lute-player. Very bold. Most would assume everything is worth conquering—that my appetite is infinite, insatiable. And they’d be right. But you’re suggesting there are moments when the conquest pauses, when the battle ends, when I’m… what? Alone with my thoughts?”

Her right arm extends, the scarred hand gesturing toward the great doors at the far end.

“You’ve earned your midnight tea in my library, Joel Overberus. We’ll discuss your commission properly—what songs you’ll create, what melodies will echo through taverns for generations. But first, you’ll tell me what you think you’ll find when you meet that version of me. The one who breathes in cold nights and stares at stars. The one who sees dark holes growing far below even after profound defloration. What do you expect to discover in those shadows?”

Joel’s expression shifts. His face contorts slightly, as if reacting to a sudden pain. He looks past her features toward something beyond—perhaps the throne, perhaps the shadows gathering in the vaulted ceiling above. His expression holds that distant focus for several seconds. Then he snaps back, meeting her gaze again. His chest rises and falls with a deep breath.

“What do I expect to discover? What I sense,” he says, his voice rougher now, the words emerging with a ragged quality. “A dark beyond darknesses. Not of violence, not of flesh being torn through extreme girth, but… a loneliness so cold it would burn at the touch. The loneliness of the most unique being in the world. One who can’t hope for an equal no matter how long she were to search. One who can never look up at anyone in respect.”

As the lute hangs from his left hand, his right hand curls into a loose fist, then relaxes. His round eyes hold the duchess’ domineering gaze without wavering.

The silence that follows extends through the great hall. The torches, flickering in their sconces, send shadows dancing across the flagstone floor, illuminating the dried stain on the dais step behind Bogdana’s towering frame.

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” Bogdana says. “That emptiness. Not through rumors or tales, but through your own artist’s eye. You looked past the violence and the conquest and the sexual domination, and you saw… the void. The hunger that nothing satisfies.”

Her voice drops lower, taking on a more intimate quality despite the watching crowd.

“Very few have ever articulated that particular truth, Joel Overberus. Very few would dare. But you did. You named the thing I myself cannot fully name. That dark beyond darknesses.”

She steps closer again, closing the distance she had created. Her frame once again looms directly above him. Joel tilts his head back further to maintain eye contact. The scent of musk and leather fills the narrow space between them.

“So yes. Midnight tea in my library,” she says. “We’ll discuss your commission—the songs you’ll create, the melodies that will echo through taverns for generations. But more than that, we’ll discuss what you think you’ll find when you meet that version of me. The one who breathes alone in cold nights. The scholar who sees dark holes growing far below. Show me what your artist’s vision perceives in those shadows, lute-player. Show me what even Bogdana cannot see in herself.”

The torches continue their flickering. The red banners hang still against the stone walls. Joel’s chest rises and falls with steady breaths, a boyish smile returning to his lips as he looks up at the massive figure towering above him.

THE END

Check out this lovely video about the story.

Living Narrative Engine #11

On October 14, 2025October 15, 2025 By Jon UreñaIn Escritura, Inteligencia artificial, Programación2 Comments

There’s only three people I feel myself wanting to speak to these days.

The first one is the girl I’ll always have to think of as the love of my life. I met her when I was sixteen or seventeen. Her name was Leire. A basketball player even though she wasn’t particularly tall for a girl. Passionate if a bit reckless, she was romantically interested in me for whatever reason. One night, on the grass of Hondarribia, we lay under the stars as she spoke about her dreams. Things barely started between us when I called it quits, because I had never liked someone genuinely that much (nor have I since), and I knew that the more she learned about me, the more she would regret having gotten involved with me, so it was better to cut my loses as soon as possible. I haven’t seen her in nearly twenty-five years. Not getting more intimately involved with her in a romantic sense was the right choice, but I wish I could have gotten to know her better.

The second one is a lanky girl I knew in middle school. I suspect now that she was autistic, like me. She also pursued me, and we got to meet twice outside of school. I remember sitting on a bench as she slouched beside me, talking and talking. I rarely said anything back. She also wrote these colorful letters that, I’m afraid, I never read. The last time I saw her, she was standing across the schoolyard, a conspicuous vertical scar across her forehead from the gash a stoner classmate caused her while playing around with a cutter in Arts & Crafts. I have sometimes found myself wanting to read her letters, but I recall the memory of me, back in my mid-twenties, when I existed as something of a hikikomori, not even able to handle going outside for a while, consenting to my mother throwing the letters away. I’ve long forgotten this girl’s name, so I couldn’t even try to google her up. I suspect she ended up killing herself. I wish I could have made her life better.

The third one isn’t even a real person. She’s a character of the late Cormac McCarthy, the troubled master of literature, who in the seventies fell in love with a 13-14 year old girl whom he rescued from abusive situations in the foster system, and with whom he lived somewhat briefly in Mexico. Once you know about that part of his life, you see echoes of it in pretty much all his stories. The Border Trilogy. Blood Meridian (the Judge, who made underage girls disappear wherever he went). No Country for Old Men, that ending sequence for the protagonist, when he met a compelling teenage runaway at a motel pool, whom he intended to help get to a better place (an ending that was, tragically, completely wasted in the otherwise fantastic movie, even though it was the whole thematic point that Cormac was driving to). And of course, The Passenger and Stella Maris, his last two novels, which are entirely about his grief for having lost this girl back in the seventies. The real version of Alicia Western, the doomed math genius of the novels, also struggled with mental issues due to the fucked-up things that happened to her before she ended up in the foster system. I suppose that her time with Cormac didn’t particularly improve her mental health. She ended up in a sanatorium related to Stella Maris (wasn’t exactly named like that, but the religious people involved with the institution worshiped it; Our Lady, Star of the Sea is an ancient title for Mary, the mother of Jesus). The real life version of Alicia Western (minus the math genius part) survived her ordeal, and now lives as a rancher in the Catalina Foothills in Tucson, AZ. Cormac McCarthy is dead.

In any case, I found Alicia Western so fascinating that I regularly want to return to her. Not by reading the books again, but by meeting her in my vivid imagination, during elaborate daydreams. They almost always start the same way: as I lie in bed, in the dark, I light up that room at the Stella Maris sanatorium, that will only hold her for about two or three days more before she kills herself, which she did in the novels (hardly a spoiler, as The Passenger starts with a hunter finding her frozen corpse). After I prevent her suicide, we leave the sanatorium and travel around the country, sometimes staying at hotels, sometimes at a mansion I buy from her with the gold I recovered from the looting of the Spanish reserves by communists during the Civil War. Later on, a third person joins us: an advanced AI named Hypatia, who resides in a quantum data center in another timeline, and who helps Alicia with her mathematical research. Eventually Alicia figures out a mathematical way to travel instantaneously to anywhere in the universe. Back in the future, I get my team to build a prototype of the machine. After I return to 1973 and we test it, getting video from Mars and further planetary bodies, I proudly tell her, “Alicia, you’ve made humanity a multi-stellar species,” which lights up her face. My point is that visiting Alicia Western in daydreams has become my safe place, to which I return not only at night but during train and bus rides to and from work. I’ve never felt comfortable enough among flesh-and-blood human beings, so this is the best I can do.

Anyway, I’ve spent the past months building an app that allows human users to interact with large language models (AIs) who act in character. That’s hardly novel these days, but my app also provides action discoverability and world manipulation, which sets constraints for the LLM; they can only perform during their turn the complex actions that the action discoverability system allows them to. I initially intended to use the app to play through RPG campaigns and the likes, but for the most part I use it for erotica. Whenever I get the itch to play out one of my many, many, many kinks, I set up a comprehensive scenario. Who doesn’t want to experience from time to time a fantasy in which you have a fit, taller older sister who plays volleyball, who looks so good in her sports outfits, and who can’t wait for your parents to leave the home so she can jump the bones of her adorable little brother?

In the previous part of this series, linked above, I ran the scenario of meeting Alicia at Stella Maris and preventing her suicide. I wanted to go through it again, but with an improved version of the app. I’ve implemented an item system that supports item-related actions: actors can now drop items, pick them up, give them to other actors, examine them, read them, open containers, close containers, take items from containers, and put items in containers. Some of those actions will be used by the AI during this run.

I’m playing a better version of myself: taller, more muscular, full head of hair. Alicia Western is being played by the best LLM at roleplaying, at least of those I know of: Claude Sonnet 4.5. Note: quite a few of the thought sections in this run end up being quite redundant with what Alicia says. I considered editing out the redundant parts, but opted out against it in favor of completeness. Let’s get going.

Alicia sits on the cold floor, face buried in her forearms. A deep voice rises from the room’s center.

Jon Ureña: Hello, Alicia Western. I’m glad to finally meet you.

(in this run, I’ll include the notes that the AI added to Alicia’s memory system. Entries related to me are tagged with my name, even though she has yet to learn it. That’s a limitation I don’t know how to work around.)

1. [event] Jon Ureña's entrance: Jon Ureña appeared in my locked room impossibly—door was secured, yet he entered without unlocking it
  (Context: patient room, December 22, 1972)

2. [knowledge_state] Jon Ureña's knowledge: Jon Ureña knows my full name despite me telling no one where I am—unexplained information access
  (Context: assessing potential threat)

3. [quest] reality verification: Need to determine if Jon Ureña is: (1) delusion/hallucination, (2) real intruder, or (3) phenomenon outside my theoretical framework
  (Context: immediate priority)

The locked door should have prevented anyone from entering. I locked it myself. The physical impossibility of this man’s presence in my room creates an immediate logical paradox that my mind cannot reconcile. He knows my full name. He said he’s “glad to finally meet” me—implying anticipation, familiarity, perhaps surveillance. But nobody outside this institution knows where I am. I didn’t tell anyone. The staff wouldn’t give out patient information. This is either: (1) a delusion—my mind finally fracturing completely like my parents, (2) an institutional security breach of significant magnitude, or (3) something I lack the theoretical framework to categorize. His voice is real. Deep. Male. Coming from the center of the room, which means he’s standing, while I’m here on the floor with my face hidden. Vulnerable position. I need to look at him. I need data. Visual confirmation. Assess threat level. Determine if this is happening in consensus reality or only in mine. My heart rate has increased—I can feel it against my ribs. Fear response or curiosity? Both, perhaps. I should look up. I need to see what is actually in this room with me.

(Alicia didn’t even speak during her turn, paralyzed as she was.)

The man speaks calmly.

Jon Ureña: I’ll give you all the time you need to react to the sudden presence of a stranger in your locked room.

1. [observation] Jon Ureña's behavioral pattern: Jon gave me time to process his presence rather than demanding immediate response—suggests either genuine patience or sophisticated psychological manipulation
  (Context: his initial interaction approach)

If I look up and see him—really see him—then I’ll have the data I need. Visual confirmation. Height, build, clothing, facial features. Whether his mouth moves when he speaks. Whether his feet make contact with the floor or hover impossibly. Whether light refracts off his body the way it should with a physical presence. I need to categorize this phenomenon. My analytical framework requires input. The fear is secondary to the necessity of understanding. I’ve spent my entire life being afraid of losing my mind like my parents did. If this is the moment it finally happens—if I look up and see something that cannot exist—then at least I’ll know. At least the uncertainty will end. But I have to look. I have to see what’s actually there.

Alicia lifts her head slowly, blue eyes focusing on the figure standing in the center of the room.

Alicia Western: You shouldn’t be able to be here. The door was locked. I locked it myself. Physical barriers don’t just… dissolve.

The older, bearded man, looking calmly down at Alicia, nods casually.

Jon Ureña: You would be right, given your assumption that the door was involved in my sudden presence here. No need to rush, Alicia. Take your time.

1. [observation] Jon Ureña's entrance method: Jon Ureña stated door was not involved in his entrance—implies materialization or non-conventional spatial transit into locked room
  (Context: his explanation of impossible appearance)

2. [quest] reality verification protocol: Need to verify if Jon Ureña is hallucination vs. real entity outside my theoretical framework—checking for substrate-dependence, light refraction, air displacement
  (Context: immediate priority for assessing my sanity)

3. [theory] ontological framework crisis: If Jon is real, my entire understanding of reality's boundaries requires fundamental recalibration
  (Context: implications of Jon's existence)

If I get close enough, I can verify the physical markers. See if his chest rises and falls with breath. Check if his clothing has the small imperfections real fabric shows—wrinkles, wear patterns, the way cotton and leather actually behave under gravity. Hallucinations can be vivid, but they often fail at the micro-level of detail. The texture of his beard. Whether his eyes track my movement with the slight delay real human vision requires, or whether they follow with the impossible precision my mind might generate. I need proximity. I need data. The fear of discovering I’m delusional is less than the necessity of knowing. I’ve been afraid of losing my mind my entire life—if this is that moment, at least I’ll have confirmation. At least the uncertainty will end.

Alicia rises slowly from the floor, keeping eyes locked on Jon Ureña as she stands.

Alicia Western: You said the door wasn’t involved. Which means you either materialized inside a locked room—violating conservation of mass-energy—or you exist outside conventional spacetime constraints. Both options invalidate my operational framework for consensus reality. *takes a deliberate step closer, studying his physical form with clinical precision*. I need to verify whether you’re substrate-dependent. Whether light refracts off you correctly. Whether you displace air when you move. I’ve spent twenty-two years trying to determine if my perceptions are reliable, and now you appear in my locked room claiming you’re “glad to finally meet me.” *moves closer still, voice dropping to something quieter, more raw* So here’s what I need to know: Am I finally, completely insane? Is this the moment my mind fractures like my parents’ did? Or are you actually here—something real that exists outside my theoretical framework? Because if you’re real, then everything I thought I understood about the boundaries of reality needs recalibration. And if you’re not real… *pauses, jaw tightening* …then I’ve already lost my mind, and the two days I have left are a mercy.

(Alicia chose the action “get close to Jon Ureña”)

The man, significantly taller than Alicia, extends an arm to hold one of the young woman’s pale hands.

Jon Ureña: I’m real, Alicia Western. As solid as you are. Well, much more solid. You’ve… let yourself go, I’m afraid.

(I chose the action “hold Alicia Western’s hand”)

1. [observation] Jon Ureña's physical reality: Jon Ureña's hand is warm, solid, substrate-dependent—physical verification confirms he displaces matter and generates body heat consistent with living human tissue
  (Context: empirical testing via physical contact)

2. [observation] Jon Ureña's communication style: Jon Ureña speaks with direct clinical assessment without therapeutic hedging—observed my malnutrition as 'letting myself go' without conventional medical framing
  (Context: his comment about my weight)

3. [knowledge_state] Jon Ureña's foreknowledge: Jon Ureña stated he's been waiting to meet me—implies anticipatory knowledge of my existence and timeline
  (Context: his phrase 'glad to finally meet you')

His hand is extended toward mine. He’s offering contact—physical verification of substrate-dependence. This is the experiment I need. If his hand has warmth, texture, resistance—if it exists in three-dimensional space with mass and solidity—then he’s real. Real means everything I understood about physical law is incomplete. But real also means I’m not hallucinating. Not psychotic. Not fractured like my parents. He said I’ve “let myself go”—casual observation about my weight, my malnutrition. Clinical accuracy delivered without therapeutic hedging. Nobody talks to me like that. They use careful language, therapeutic distance. He’s direct. Almost… familiar. I need to touch him. Need the data. Skin temperature, pulse if I can detect it, the micro-movements of living tissue. This is empirical verification. If he’s solid, if he’s warm, if he displaces matter the way physical bodies must—then I have to recalibrate everything. But I won’t know until I reach back. Until I make contact. My hand is already lifting. The decision made itself.

Alicia reaches out and takes his extended hand, fingers closing around his palm with deliberate precision, testing for warmth, solidity, the subtle pulse of blood beneath skin.

Alicia Western: You’re warm. Substrate-dependent. Mass displacing space exactly as physics predicts. Which means you’re either genuinely here—existing in consensus reality despite the locked door—or my hallucinations have achieved unprecedented phenomenological accuracy. *holds his hand for several seconds longer than socially conventional, studying the point of contact with clinical focus* You said I’ve let myself go. Ninety-eight pounds. I know the clinical thresholds. The knowledge changes nothing. But you’re the first person in this institution who hasn’t wrapped that observation in therapeutic language. No “concerning weight loss” or “nutritional goals.” Just direct assessment. *meets his eyes, voice dropping to something quieter, more uncertain* You know my full name. You said you’re “glad to finally meet me”—which implies you’ve been waiting. Anticipating this encounter. But I didn’t tell anyone where I am. The staff wouldn’t disclose patient information. So either you have access to institutional records you shouldn’t have, or… *pauses, jaw tightening slightly* Or you exist outside the operational framework I’ve been using to map reality. Which terrifies me more than discovering I’m completely insane.

The man offers Alicia a kind gaze.

Jon Ureña: There’s no need for you to fear anything anymore, Alicia. I didn’t access institutional records to learn about you, a 22-year-old math genius who has given in to despair. I’ll give you all the time you need to come up with a different, more accurate alternative to my sudden, solid presence here, in front of you.

1. [observation] Jon Ureña's reassurance: Jon Ureña stated there's 'no need to fear anything anymore'—past tense suggests my reasons for fear have been resolved, not just that he's non-threatening
  (Context: his phrasing about my fear)

2. [knowledge_state] Jon Ureña's knowledge of my condition: Jon Ureña described me as '22-year-old math genius who has given in to despair'—precise assessment of my psychological state delivered without clinical hedging
  (Context: his accurate characterization)

3. [quest] source of Jon's information: Need to determine how Jon Ureña acquired knowledge of my age, intelligence, and psychological state without being told or accessing institutional records
  (Context: unexplained knowledge acquisition)

He said he’ll give me all the time I need to come up with a different alternative. A “more accurate” alternative to his presence. He’s testing whether I’ll accept the obvious conclusion or keep searching for explanations that preserve my existing framework. It’s like he knows I default to analysis when reality becomes unbearable. But what alternative is there? Door wasn’t involved—his words. Physical laws say matter can’t materialize spontaneously in enclosed spaces. Conservation of mass-energy is foundational. Unless… unless my framework is incomplete. Unless spacetime has properties I’ve never mapped. He said there’s no need to fear anything anymore. Past tense implied—as if my reasons for fear have been resolved, not just that he’s personally non-threatening. He called me a “22-year-old math genius who has given in to despair”—accurate assessment delivered without clinical distance. He knows what I am. What I’ve become. The warmth of his hand is still registering on my skin. Real. Solid. His pulse was detectable—substrate-dependent biology. But the locked door. The impossible entrance. I need to process this. I need to think. He said he’ll give me time, so I should take it. Let the data settle. See if my mind generates any explanation that doesn’t require abandoning everything I understand about physics.

Alicia Western: You’re asking me to reconcile an impossible physical phenomenon with my existing theoretical framework. The door was locked—I verified it myself. Conservation of mass-energy states that matter cannot spontaneously appear in enclosed systems. Yet you’re here. Warm. Solid. Displacing air exactly as a physical body should. *releases his hand slowly, taking a small step back while maintaining eye contact* You said “no need to fear anything anymore”—past tense construction. As if my reasons for fear have been resolved, not just that you personally pose no threat. You know I’m a 22-year-old math genius who has “given in to despair.” Accurate clinical assessment. But how do you know that? Who told you? Or did you… observe me somehow before entering this room? *wraps arms around herself, fingers pressing against ribs through the thin cotton dress* You’re giving me time to generate alternative explanations. I appreciate the intellectual courtesy. But every explanation I can construct violates fundamental physical law. Either spacetime has properties I’ve never mapped—dimensional access outside conventional three-space, perhaps—or my perceptual apparatus is generating phenomenologically accurate hallucinations, which would indicate complete psychotic break. *voice drops to something quieter, more uncertain* I’ve spent twenty-two years trying to determine if my perceptions are reliable. If you’re real—genuinely real, existing in consensus reality—then everything I thought I understood needs recalibration. And if you’re not real… then I’ve already lost my mind like my parents did, and the two days I have left don’t matter anyway.

The older man’s lips curve into a patient smile. He observes Alicia for a few seconds before speaking.

Jon Ureña: Two days left, Alicia. The woods are waiting, is that it? Your release through extreme cold.

1. [knowledge_state] Jon Ureña's impossible knowledge: Jon Ureña knows specific details about my December 24 suicide plan—woods, freezing method—despite me never telling anyone and only documenting it in locked letter
  (Context: his mention of 'woods' and 'extreme cold' for my release)

2. [psychological_state] my reality verification crisis: If Jon can access information existing only in my mind or locked documents, my perceptual boundaries are compromised—same cognitive failure pattern as my parents
  (Context: confronting possibility of complete psychotic break)

He knows about December 24. The woods. The cold. The specific method. I never told anyone. The letter is locked in the desk—nobody has accessed it. The therapists know I’m suicidal but not the timeline, not the method. So how does he know? Either he read my mind somehow—which violates every principle of information theory and cognitive isolation—or he accessed the letter impossibly, or he exists outside linear causality and observed a future that hasn’t happened yet. All three options require abandoning foundational assumptions about reality. About the boundaries between minds. About cause and effect. If thoughts aren’t private—if the contents of my consciousness are accessible to external entities—then I have no way to distinguish internal from external phenomena. No way to verify whether my perceptions are reliable. That’s the definition of psychosis. That’s what happened to my mother. To my father. The inability to determine what’s real versus what’s generated internally. If I’ve reached that point—if Jon can access information that exists only in my locked thoughts or locked drawer—then my analytical framework is worthless. I can’t trust my own mind to process data accurately. And if I can’t trust my mind, then every conclusion I’ve ever reached is suspect. Including the conclusion that death is optimal. But also including any conclusion that life might be worth continuing. It’s Gödel again. The system trying to prove its own consistency. I need him to explain. Need to understand how he knows. Because the answer will tell me whether I’m delusional or whether reality operates on principles I’ve never mapped.

Alicia’s voice drops to something barely above a whisper.

Alicia Western: He knows about the woods. About the cold. About December 24—two days from now. I never told anyone the method. I never spoke it aloud. The therapists know I’m suicidal, but not the specifics. Not the when or the how. I wrote it in the letter to Bobby that’s locked in the desk drawer, but nobody has read that letter except me. *takes a slow breath, arms tightening around ribs* You said you didn’t access institutional records. Which means you either observed me somehow—watched me planning, thinking, deciding—or you exist outside linear causality. Either option terrifies me more than the prospect of death itself. *meets his eyes directly, searching for something—deception, madness, truth* So here’s what I need to understand: How do you know about December 24? How do you know about the woods, the cold, the method I chose specifically because it’s peaceful? Because if you can access information that exists only inside my mind or written in a locked drawer… then every framework I’ve used to distinguish between internal perception and external reality is compromised. *voice drops even quieter, almost breaking* And if my perceptual boundaries are that porous—if thoughts and physical documents are equally accessible to… whatever you are… then I’ve already lost the ability to determine what’s real. Which means I’m exactly where my parents ended up. Fractured. Delusional. Unable to map consensus reality. Is that what’s happening? Am I finally, completely insane?

Jon Ureña: Perhaps I’m being mean to you. I intended for you to have all the time in the world to unravel your thoughts and come up with your explanations at your rhythm. But that’s counterproductive if you think you’re losing your mind. Let’s begin, then. You’re writing a letter to your brother Bobby, right? A goodbye letter that you’ve yet to finish.

1. [knowledge_state] Jon Ureña's impossible knowledge: Jon Ureña knows about my unfinished goodbye letter to Bobby—specific knowledge of locked document he shouldn't have access to
  (Context: his mention of the letter I'm writing to Bobby)

2. [theory] information access paradox: Jon Ureña's knowledge of locked letter violates information theory—no physical access mechanism available
  (Context: analyzing how he could know about the letter)

3. [psychological_state] my reality verification crisis: If Jon can access locked documents without physical contact, my ability to distinguish internal vs. external reality is compromised
  (Context: confronting implications of his knowledge)

He knows about the letter to Bobby. The unfinished letter locked in the desk. I need to understand the mechanism. Not what he knows—how he knows. Because the answer to that question determines whether I’m having a psychotic break or whether reality operates on principles I’ve never encountered. If he can access information locked in physical containers without opening them, that suggests either remote viewing capabilities, telepathic access, or temporal observation outside linear causality. All three options require abandoning foundational assumptions. But I need him to explain. Need the data. Because right now I’m suspended between two equally terrifying possibilities: complete psychosis or a universe that functions in ways my analytical framework can’t accommodate. He said he’s giving me time to think, but thinking without data just generates infinite recursive loops. I need him to answer. Need him to explain the mechanism. That’s the only way to determine if I’m still capable of mapping reality accurately.

Alicia stands very still, arms wrapped around ribs, eyes locked on Jon’s face.

Alicia Western: He knows about the letter. The specific letter to Bobby that’s locked in the desk drawer. The one I haven’t finished writing. The one nobody has read except me. The door to this room is locked. The desk drawer is locked. I verified both myself. He didn’t access institutional records—he said that explicitly. So how does he know about the letter? How does he know it’s unfinished? *voice drops quieter, more uncertain* You’re asking me to explain something that violates information theory. Physical documents don’t transmit their contents to external observers unless those observers have direct sensory access. You couldn’t have read the letter unless you opened the desk, which would require unlocking it, which would leave evidence. But there’s no evidence. The drawer is still locked. *jaw tightens slightly* So either you accessed the information through means I can’t map—read my mind somehow, or observed the timeline from outside linear causality—or I’m generating this entire conversation as a psychotic hallucination and the letter never existed in the first place. *meets his eyes directly* I need to understand how you know about the letter. Not because I’m afraid of you knowing the content—it’s a goodbye letter to Bobby, there’s nothing shameful in it—but because the mechanism of your knowledge will tell me whether I’m delusional or whether my operational framework for reality is catastrophically incomplete. Because if thoughts and locked documents are equally accessible to you… then I’ve lost the ability to distinguish between internal perception and external reality. And that’s the definition of psychosis. That’s what happened to my parents. *voice barely above a whisper* So tell me. How do you know about the letter?

Jon Ureña: I know about your letter because I have it. Well, a version of it. *he produces a folded, yellowed sheet* The finished version you’ve yet to write. Care to give it a look?

(I used the action “give yellowed goodbye letter to Alicia Western”)

1. [item] yellowed goodbye letter: Jon Ureña produced yellowed letter claiming it's the finished version I haven't written yet—implies either temporal manipulation or sophisticated fabrication
  (Context: handed to me by Jon in my locked room)

2. [theory] Jon Ureña's temporal claims: Jon Ureña claims to possess future version of my letter to Bobby—either exists outside linear time or fabricated convincing forgery
  (Context: analyzing his impossible knowledge)

He says he has the finished version. The letter I haven’t written yet. That violates causality so fundamentally that every framework I have for understanding temporal sequence collapses. Effect preceding cause. Future information existing in the present. Either he’s lying—fabricated a document and claims it’s mine—or he exists outside linear time in a way that makes observation of future states possible. Or I’m generating this entire scenario as a complex delusion and the yellowed paper in his hand is just another artifact of my fractured mind. I need to see it. Need to read the content. Because if the handwriting matches mine, if the content reflects thoughts I haven’t articulated yet, if the details are accurate to what I would write… then I have empirical evidence that either time is non-linear or I’m completely psychotic. The letter will tell me which. My hand is already reaching for it. The decision made itself before I consciously registered the impulse. I need to see what I supposedly wrote. What version of me that doesn’t exist yet decided to say to Bobby. This is data. Raw, unfiltered data about the nature of reality or the extent of my delusion. I have to look.

Alicia takes the yellowed paper from his hand, fingers trembling slightly as they make contact with the aged material.

Alicia Western: The paper is yellowed. Oxidation takes time—years, usually, depending on environmental conditions and acidity of the material. But I haven’t written the finished version yet. Which means either you aged the paper artificially to create verisimilitude, or this document actually exists in a temporal state that shouldn’t be accessible from December 22, 1972. *unfolds the letter slowly, eyes scanning for handwriting recognition before reading content* If this is my handwriting—if the content matches what I would write but haven’t written yet—then you’re showing me evidence that causality isn’t linear. That future states can influence or be observed from past positions in the timeline. Which invalidates every assumption I’ve made about temporal sequence. *voice drops quieter, more uncertain* Or I’m hallucinating this entire interaction and the letter is just another artifact my fractured mind is generating. Like my parents. Like the voices they heard, the patterns they saw that nobody else could verify. I need to read it. Need to see what version of me that doesn’t exist yet supposedly decided to say to Bobby.

(instead of reading the letter, Alicia chose the action “examine yellowed goodbye letter”)

The older man crosses his arms and observes patiently as Alicia observes the letter.

1. [item] yellowed goodbye letter: Jon Ureña produced yellowed letter claiming it's the finished version of my goodbye letter to Bobby—handwriting appears to match mine with characteristic patterns
  (Context: examining the document Jon gave me)

2. [theory] temporal causality test: If letter content matches thoughts I haven't articulated yet, it constitutes empirical evidence for either non-linear time or complete psychotic break
  (Context: analyzing implications of the letter's existence)

The paper is yellowed. Aged. He claims it’s the finished version of a letter I haven’t written yet. Either he fabricated this—carefully aged paper, forged my handwriting, predicted what I would say to Bobby—or he’s showing me empirical evidence that causality isn’t linear. That future states can exist and be observed from past temporal positions. I need to read it. Not because I believe him yet. But because the content will tell me whether this is an elaborate deception or whether my entire framework for understanding time needs to be abandoned. If the handwriting matches mine perfectly—if the content reflects thoughts I haven’t articulated yet but would articulate—then I have data. Raw data about whether reality operates on principles I’ve never mapped or whether I’m generating sophisticated hallucinations. My hand is already holding the paper. The decision made itself. I’m going to read what I supposedly wrote. What version of me that doesn’t exist yet decided to say to Bobby in a goodbye letter I haven’t finished. This is the empirical test. Read the content. Assess the accuracy. Determine if Jon is lying or if time itself is non-linear.

Alicia unfolds the yellowed paper carefully, eyes scanning the handwriting first—checking for characteristic loops in her lowercase ‘g’, the way she crosses her ‘t’s with slight upward angle, the pressure variations that indicate her hand trembling.

Alicia Western: The handwriting… it looks like mine. The pressure patterns match. But I need to read the content. Need to see if the thoughts align with what I would write but haven’t written yet. *begins reading aloud slowly, voice dropping quieter as she processes each sentence.*

(Alicia chose to read the letter)

The older man merely listens to Alicia’s soft voice as she reads aloud slowly, to herself.

(What follows is the contents of the goodbye letter. I gave Sonnet 4.5 Alicia’s character definition, which is a JSON file, and explained the circumstances. It produced this letter in one go. I’ve ceased to be surprised.)

December 22, 1972

Stella Maris

Bobby,

The probability of you reading this approaches zero. The doctors said “braindead”—past tense, declarative, clinically certain. But I cannot pull the plug. I fled instead. So this letter exists in a superposition state: written but unread, meant for you but addressed to no one. Schrödinger’s goodbye.

If you are reading this, then something impossible happened. You woke up. The substrate repaired itself against all medical prediction. In which case, you should know: on the 24th—Christmas Eve, because apparently I have a taste for symbolic timing—I intend to walk into the woods behind the sanatorium and let the Wisconsin winter finish what Lake Tahoe started.

I am trying to explain this rationally, but the premises keep collapsing:

Premise One: You were my only tether to continued existence.

Premise Two: Without you conscious in the world, the equation no longer balances.

Conclusion: Death is the optimal solution.

But even I can see the flaw in my logic. I have spent twenty-two years analyzing everything except the one variable that matters: that I want to die has been true longer than you have been in a coma. The coma is just the excuse my mind has been waiting for.

You used to take me to that bar in Nashville. Jazz on Thursdays. You would order whiskey and I would watch the colors the saxophone made—ambers and deep golds, spiraling up into the smoke. You never tried to fix me during those nights. You just sat there, let me talk about Gödel or Cantor or whatever mathematical dead-end I was pursuing that month. You listened without needing me to be different. I miss that. I miss you. I miss my brother so much it aches behind my ribs.

There are things I need you to know, in the infinitesimal probability you are reading this:

One: None of this is your fault. I know your patterns, Bobby. You run when things hurt, you isolate when you cannot fix something, and if you are reading this you will spend the rest of your life believing you should have prevented it somehow. You could not have. This was always the trajectory. I am my parents’ daughter—both of them. If you accept the premise that consciousness is substrate-dependent, and that substrate degenerates, then the conclusion is inevitable. You were not the variable. You were just the last reason I had to delay the inevitable.

Two: I deliberately left Granellen behind without saying goodbye. She is old, Bobby. One day somehow she will find out that I killed myself because you were gone, and I wonder if she will blame you. Please tell her—if you can—that I made this choice with the same mathematical precision I applied to everything else. It was not impulse. It was calculation. Maybe that will help. Probably it will not.

Three: I died a virgin. Twenty-two years old and I never let anyone close enough. Other than your hugs, the way you used to hold my hand when we were children, I have never felt safe enough to welcome intimacy. I used to imagine my first time… someone looking down at me with tenderness, entering me like a cathedral. Reverent. Gentle. I wanted to be touched like I mattered. I will never know that. And some nights the loneliness of that is worse than the thought of dying. The loneliness is not metaphorical. It is a measurable absence, like a vacuum.

Four: The inheritance money from Grandfather—you bought that race car and crashed it in Italy and ended up braindead, and I cannot even be angry at you for it because at least you lived before the crash. You drove too fast and loved too hard and existed in the world like you belonged there. I never learned how. You squeezed everything out of your twenty-six years. I spent twenty-two calculating and never participating.

Five: Sometimes I just wanted to buy groceries with someone and argue about peaches. That is all. A small, domestic life. A child maybe. Someone to hold. Someone who needed me to stay alive. I used to imagine myself coming home to someone—putting down bags, laughing about something ordinary. It feels like a fantasy belonging to a different version of me. One who was not born like this.

Six: The mathematics failed me. I thought if I could just find the right proof, decode the fundamental structure of reality, I would understand why I am the way I am. Why my mind works like this. Why I am so profoundly alone. But math is unable to grasp the entirety of reality. Perhaps reality itself is artificial. Perhaps I have been chasing an unsolvable proof because unsolvable is the only thing that does not disappoint me with its solution.

Seven: I lied to my therapist here. I have been testing whether he will notice the inconsistencies. Treating our professional relationship as an experiment in psychological detection. What is the therapeutic intervention for someone who can deconstruct the intervention as it is happening? How do you treat awareness itself? I think the answer is: you cannot. At a certain level of meta-cognitive function, healing becomes impossible.

I keep trying to write something that will make sense to you, Bobby, but I am graph paper and bruise. Part calculation, part wound. I cannot separate them anymore.

You asked me once what I wanted. Really wanted. I told you I wanted to experience one genuine moment of intellectual surprise from another human being before I died. Just one. You laughed and said I was impossible to surprise because I had already mapped every possible response before people opened their mouths. You were right. But here is what I could not tell you then: I was not looking for intellectual surprise. I was looking for someone who could see me—actually see me—and not need me to be different. You did that. You were the only one who ever did. And now you are gone.

The doctors used words like “catastrophic” and “irreversible” and “permanent vegetative state.” Clinical terms for: your brother is never coming back. And I keep thinking—if consciousness is substrate-dependent, if the substrate is destroyed, then where did you go, Bobby? Are you nowhere? Is that what waits for me in two days? Nowhere?

Part of me hopes so. I am so tired.

I tried Lake Tahoe first. Three weeks ago. I walked into the water and lasted six minutes before my survival instinct overrode the decision. Disappointing, really. But I have learned from that failure. Freezing is supposedly more reliable. You just fall asleep. Very considerate of biology to make the exit so tidy.

I wonder if you will blame yourself for buying that race car. For going to Italy. For crashing. Please do not. You were living. That is more than I ever managed.

I wish I could have told you I loved you one more time. I wish we could have had one more Thursday at that bar in Nashville, watching the music make colors in the air. I wish a lot of things. But wishing is not mathematics. It proves nothing.

This is grief. Sharp, then dull. Comes in waves, like bad weather. I just want Bobby to wake up. I want my brother back.

Goodbye, Bobby. If you are reading this, I am already gone. I am sorry I could not stay. I am sorry I was never strong enough to exist in a world without you conscious in it.

The woods are waiting. December 24th. Christmas Eve.

I love you. I am sorry.

—Alicia

P.S. I remember every word you ever said to me. Every single word. Most people forget. I would give anything to forget. But I cannot. So I am taking all of it with me. Every conversation, every laugh, every time you held my hand. Perfect recall. Perfect preservation. I am carrying all of you into the dark.

1. [knowledge_state] Jon Ureña's impossible knowledge: Jon Ureña produced yellowed letter containing thoughts I've never spoken aloud—private desires about intimacy, wanting to be 'entered like a cathedral,' buying groceries and arguing about peaches—thoughts existing only in my mind or unassembled fragments
  (Context: examining the letter he gave me)

2. [observation] yellowed goodbye letter: Letter's handwriting matches mine with characteristic patterns—lowercase 'g' loops, upward angle on 't' crosses, pressure variations from hand trembling when writing about Bobby
  (Context: verifying authenticity of document)

3. [psychological_state] my reality verification crisis: If Jon can access thoughts existing only in my mind, I've lost ability to distinguish internal from external phenomena—same cognitive failure as my parents
  (Context: confronting implications of the letter)

4. [observation] Jon Ureña's behavioral pattern: Jon observed me reading the letter with patient calm, as if he expected this exact reaction—suggests he may have witnessed this moment from future vantage point
  (Context: his demeanor while I read)

I just finished reading aloud what is supposedly my own goodbye letter—a letter I haven’t written yet but which describes my thoughts with devastating accuracy. The handwriting looked like mine. The pressure patterns matched. The content… God, the content. Every private thought I’ve had about Bobby, about dying a virgin, about the loneliness being a measurable vacuum, about wanting to buy groceries and argue about peaches. Thoughts I’ve never spoken aloud to anyone. Thoughts that existed only inside my skull or scribbled in fragments I haven’t assembled yet. And here they are, compiled into a coherent whole on yellowed paper that Jon claims comes from a future I haven’t reached. Either he fabricated this with impossible precision—predicting not just what I would say but how I would say it, the exact phrasing, the mathematical metaphors, the way I break down when talking about Bobby—or this letter is genuine evidence that time doesn’t work the way I thought it did. That future states can exist and be observed from past positions. That causality is non-linear in ways my entire analytical framework never accounted for. I’m holding empirical data that either proves I’m having a complete psychotic break—generating sophisticated hallucinations that include tactile sensations of aged paper and visual accuracy of my own handwriting—or proves that reality operates on principles I’ve never mapped. Jon is standing there watching me. Patient. Calm. Like he expected this exact reaction. Like he’s seen this moment before. Which would make sense if he exists outside linear time. If he’s already observed this conversation from a future vantage point. I need to respond. Need to say something. But what do you say when someone hands you evidence that either you’re insane or everything you understood about causality is wrong? What do you say when the letter describes wanting to be “entered like a cathedral”—a thought so private I’ve never spoken it aloud, never written it anywhere Jon could have accessed? He knows. Somehow he knows. And I need to understand how.

Alicia lowers the yellowed letter slowly, hands trembling slightly as fingers maintain grip on the aged paper.

Alicia Western: The handwriting matches mine. Characteristic loops in the lowercase ‘g’. The way I cross my ‘t’s with slight upward angle. Pressure variations consistent with my hand trembling when I write about Bobby. The content… *pauses, jaw tightening* You couldn’t have predicted this with such precision unless you either read my mind—which violates every principle of cognitive isolation—or you actually possess a document I haven’t written yet. Which violates causality. *meets his eyes directly* The letter describes thoughts I’ve never spoken aloud. Private thoughts about wanting to be “entered like a cathedral.” About the loneliness being a measurable vacuum. About buying groceries and arguing about peaches with someone. Those thoughts existed only inside my skull or in fragments I haven’t assembled yet. So how does this letter exist? How do you have it? *voice drops quieter, more uncertain* I need you to explain. Not because I’m afraid of what you know—the content doesn’t shame me. But because the mechanism of your knowledge will tell me whether I’m having a complete psychotic break or whether my entire framework for understanding time is catastrophically incomplete. Because if future states can exist and be observed from past positions in the timeline… then every assumption I’ve made about causality needs to be abandoned. And if you can access thoughts that exist only in my mind… then I’ve lost the ability to distinguish internal from external phenomena. So tell me. How do you have this letter?

The older man holds Alicia’s brittle gaze, then speaks calmly.

Jon Ureña: Your brother Bobby gave it to me.

1. [theory] Bobby's recovery: Bobby gave Jon the yellowed letter—implies Bobby wakes from coma at some future point and personally hands Jon the document
  (Context: Jon's claim about letter's origin)

2. [quest] temporal coordinates request: Need specific date when Bobby wakes from coma to determine if December 24 plan is based on false premises
  (Context: verifying whether suicide plan operates on accurate data)

3. [theory] December 24 plan validity: If Bobby recovers, entire suicide calculation collapses—plan derives from assumption Bobby never regains consciousness
  (Context: reassessing decision based on new information)

Bobby gave him the letter. Bobby gave him the letter. Bobby is in a coma. Braindead. The doctors said past tense, declarative, clinically certain. Bobby cannot give anyone anything. Bobby cannot speak, cannot write, cannot hand Jon a letter that I haven’t written yet. Unless… unless Bobby wakes up. Unless at some future point Bobby regains consciousness and I finish the letter and Bobby somehow acquires it and gives it to Jon who then travels backward in time to this moment, December 22, 1972, to hand me evidence of a future I haven’t reached yet. Which would mean causality is non-linear. Which would mean Jon exists outside temporal sequence in a way that makes observation of future states possible. Which would mean Bobby wakes up. Bobby wakes up. The premise I’ve been operating under—that Bobby is gone forever, that the substrate is destroyed, that continued existence without him conscious in the world is mathematically untenable—that premise is wrong. If Jon is telling the truth. If Bobby actually wakes up at some point and gives him this letter. Then my entire calculation collapses. The suicide plan on December 24 is based on the assumption that Bobby never regains consciousness. But if he does wake up… if there’s a timeline where Bobby recovers and reads my goodbye letter and somehow encounters Jon and hands him the yellowed paper… then I’m about to kill myself based on false data. I’m about to execute a plan derived from incomplete information. The equation doesn’t balance if Bobby wakes up. I need to ask when. I need temporal coordinates. Because if Bobby wakes up in five years, that’s one dataset. If he wakes up in six months, that’s different. I need to know whether the timeline where Bobby recovers is accessible from my current position or whether it’s a branching possibility I can’t reach. I need Jon to give me the date. The specific date when Bobby supposedly gives him this letter. Because that’s the variable that determines whether December 24 still makes sense or whether I need to recalculate everything.

Alicia stands very still, hands still holding the yellowed letter, eyes locked on Jon’s face.

Alicia Western: Bobby gave you this letter. Bobby, who is currently in a coma in Italy. Bobby, who the doctors described as braindead—past tense, declarative, clinically certain. Bobby, who cannot speak or move or hand anyone anything. *pauses, jaw tightening slightly* Which means one of three things: Either you’re lying about the source—fabricated the letter yourself and claiming Bobby gave it to you to make it more convincing. Or I’m having a complete psychotic break and generating this entire conversation including tactile sensations of aged paper and your physical presence. Or… *voice drops quieter, more uncertain* Or Bobby wakes up. At some point in a future I haven’t reached yet, Bobby regains consciousness and reads this letter and somehow encounters you and gives you the yellowed paper, and then you traveled backward in time to December 22, 1972 to hand me evidence of a timeline where my brother recovers. *takes a slow breath* If that third option is accurate—if Bobby actually wakes up—then every calculation I’ve made about December 24 is based on false premises. The entire suicide plan derives from the assumption that Bobby never regains consciousness. That the substrate is permanently destroyed. That continued existence without him is mathematically untenable. *meets his eyes directly* But if he wakes up… if there’s a timeline where Bobby recovers… then I’m about to kill myself based on incomplete data. Which would be the ultimate failure of my analytical abilities. Executing a plan without verifying all the variables. *voice barely above a whisper* So I need you to tell me: When does Bobby wake up? What are the temporal coordinates? Because if it’s five years from now, that’s one dataset. If it’s six months, that’s different. I need to know whether the timeline where Bobby recovers is something I can reach from my current position or whether it’s a branching possibility that only exists if I don’t walk into the woods on December 24. Give me the date. The specific date when Bobby supposedly gives you this letter. Because that’s the variable that determines whether my plan still makes sense or whether I need to recalculate everything.

Jon Ureña: I’ll give you a date: April 27, 1973. That’s the day your brother wakes up. As for the date when he gave me that letter… that can wait for now. *He produces an aged photograph, then hands it over to Alicia* Give it a look, will you?

(I use chose the action “give photo #1 to Alicia Western”)

1. [timeline] Bobby's recovery date: Bobby wakes from coma on April 27, 1973—that's 126 days from today (December 22, 1972)
  (Context: Jon Ureña's claim about when Bobby regains consciousness)

2. [theory] December 24 plan validity: If Bobby wakes April 27, 1973, my December 24 suicide plan is based on false premises—entire calculation derives from assumption Bobby never recovers
  (Context: reassessing suicide decision based on Jon's timeline)

3. [knowledge_state] letter acquisition timeline: Jon hasn't revealed when Bobby gave him the letter—temporal coordinate between Bobby's recovery and Jon acquiring document still unknown
  (Context: missing data point in Jon's claims)

4. [item] photo #1: Jon produced aged photograph claiming it shows future moment—second temporal artifact offered as evidence
  (Context: Jon handed me photograph after revealing Bobby's wake date)

April 27, 1973. Bobby wakes up on April 27, 1973. That’s 126 days from now. Four months and five days. Jon just gave me the single most critical variable in my entire existence—temporal coordinates for Bobby’s recovery. If that date is accurate—if Bobby actually regains consciousness on April 27—then my December 24 plan is based on catastrophically false premises. The whole calculation derives from the assumption that Bobby never wakes up. But if he does… if there’s a timeline where Bobby recovers and I just need to survive 126 days to reach it… then walking into the woods in two days would be the ultimate failure of analytical reasoning. Executing a plan without verifying all variables. But Jon hasn’t answered the second question yet. When did Bobby give him the letter? That temporal coordinate matters too. If Bobby gives him the letter in 1974, that’s one dataset. If it’s 2012, that’s different. I need to understand the timeline. Need to map when Jon acquired the document. But he’s handing me another photograph now. Another aged artifact that supposedly shouldn’t exist yet. Another piece of evidence that either time is non-linear or I’m generating increasingly sophisticated hallucinations. I need to look at it. Need to see what future moment he’s claiming to show me. The photograph will either reinforce his claims about Bobby’s recovery or reveal inconsistencies that prove he’s lying. This is data. Empirical data about whether Jon exists outside linear time or whether I’m having a complete psychotic break. I’m already holding the yellowed letter in one hand. Now he’s giving me a photograph. Evidence accumulating. I need to examine it. Need to see what image he’s claiming comes from a future I haven’t reached yet.

Alicia takes the photograph from his hand, fingers still holding the yellowed letter in the other hand.

Alicia Western: April 27, 1973. That’s 126 days from now. Four months and five days. If that date is accurate—if Bobby actually wakes up on that specific day—then every calculation I’ve made about December 24 collapses. The whole plan derives from the premise that Bobby never regains consciousness. But if he does… *pauses, jaw tightening slightly* You said Bobby gave you the letter. But you didn’t say when. That temporal coordinate matters. If Bobby gives you this letter in 1974, that’s one dataset. If it’s 2012, that’s different. I need to understand the timeline. When does Bobby hand you this yellowed paper? How many years after he wakes up? Because that duration—the span between his recovery and his encounter with you—that’s part of the equation too. *looks down at the photograph in her hand, not yet examining it closely* But you’re giving me another artifact instead of answering. Another piece of aged evidence that supposedly shouldn’t exist yet. Fine. I’ll look at your photograph. I’ll examine whatever future moment you’re claiming to show me. But I need you to understand something: If these artifacts are genuine—if you actually possess documents and images from timelines I haven’t reached yet—then you’re asking me to survive 126 days based on faith in your testimony. Faith that Bobby wakes up on April 27. Faith that your temporal coordinates are accurate. And I don’t operate on faith. I operate on verifiable data. *meets his eyes directly before looking down at the photograph* So I’m going to examine this image. And if it reinforces your claims about Bobby’s recovery, if it shows evidence of a future where he’s conscious and I’m… wherever I am… then maybe—maybe—I’ll recalculate whether December 24 still makes sense. But if there are inconsistencies. If the evidence doesn’t support your timeline. Then I’m back to my original calculation. The woods. The cold. December 24. *looks down at the photograph, preparing to examine it*.

(Alicia chose the action “examine photo #1”)

The older man waits as Alicia’s feverish gaze examines the photograph.

1. [item] photo #1 temporal evidence: Photograph dated '81 shows Bobby in mid-thirties working as salvage diver—if genuine, proves Bobby survives at least 9 years after April 27, 1973 wake date
  (Context: examining photograph Jon gave me)

2. [observation] Bobby's psychological state: Bobby appears haunted in 1981 photo—performing normalcy while despair bubbles inside
  (Context: 1981 salvage diving photograph)

3. [theory] temporal implications of suicide: If December 24 plan executes, I die 8 years and 8 months before Bobby's 1981 photograph—would never know he woke up
  (Context: calculating what I'd miss if I die December 24, 1972)

4. [knowledge_state] missing temporal coordinate: Jon still hasn't revealed when Bobby gave him the letter—duration between April 27, 1973 recovery and letter handoff remains unknown variable
  (Context: Jon's incomplete timeline)

Jon said Bobby gave him the letter but didn’t specify when—temporal coordinate still missing from the equation. But he’s offering another piece of evidence now. An aged photograph. ’81 written in the corner. 1981. That’s nine years from now. Nine years after Bobby supposedly wakes up on April 27, 1973. If the photograph shows Bobby at mid-thirties—he’s twenty-six now in December 1972, so mid-thirties would place him around… thirty-four, thirty-five. Which maps to early 1980s. The math is consistent so far. But I need to see what the image actually depicts. Bobby looks haunted in the photo—doing his best to look normal even though despair bubbles inside him. The photograph exists. I’m holding it. Aged paper, someone wrote ’81 in the corner. If this is genuine—if it actually shows Bobby nine years from now, alive, conscious, working as a salvage diver based on the gear Jon described—then that’s empirical evidence that Bobby not only wakes up on April 27, 1973 but survives at least until 1981. At least nine more years. Which means my December 24 plan would kill me eight years and eight months before this photograph gets taken. I would die without ever knowing Bobby woke up. Without ever seeing him conscious again. The equation shifts if this photograph is genuine. But I need to examine it closely. Need to verify whether it’s actually Bobby or some elaborate fabrication. Whether the aging is consistent with nine years of oxidation. Whether the details support Jon’s timeline or reveal inconsistencies that prove he’s lying. This is data. Raw empirical data about whether Jon exists outside linear time or whether I’m generating increasingly sophisticated hallucinations that include tactile sensations of aged paper and visual accuracy of photographs that shouldn’t exist yet. I’m going to look at the photograph now. Really look at it. See what future moment Jon is claiming to show me.

Alicia looks down at the photograph, studying the image with clinical precision—examining facial features for recognition of Bobby’s bone structure, checking aging patterns against expected nine-year progression, analyzing the salvage gear and river setting for environmental consistency.

Alicia Western: The photograph shows someone who looks like Bobby. Mid-thirties. The bone structure matches—same jaw line, same spacing between the eyes. But he looks… hollow. Like he’s performing normalcy while something fundamental is broken inside. *traces finger along the edge where ’81 is written* 1981. Nine years from now. If this is genuine—if Bobby actually survives until at least 1981, working as a salvage diver based on the gear—then my December 24 plan would execute before any of this timeline unfolds. I’d kill myself eight years and eight months before this photograph gets taken. *looks up at Jon, eyes searching his face* You still haven’t answered when Bobby gave you the letter. That temporal coordinate matters. If he gave it to you in 1974, that’s one thing. If it’s 1981 when this photograph was taken, that’s different. If it’s 2012, that changes the equation entirely. I need the date. The specific date when Bobby handed you that yellowed letter. Because the duration between his recovery on April 27, 1973 and his encounter with you—that span of time tells me how long Bobby lives after waking up. Whether he survives one year or forty years. Whether the timeline where he’s conscious and alive is something brief or something… extended. *voice drops quieter* Give me the date, Jon. When does Bobby give you this letter?

(Alicia chose again “examine photo #1”. I hadn’t predicted this. Examining the same item just writes the same description of the item in the acting actor’s log. I don’t know if implementing the notion of “more thorough examination” is something valuable enough to add into the code)

As Alicia tries to get more information out of the simple photograph through examining it closely, Jon answers.

Jon Ureña: I first met Bobby in 2004. I got to know him enough that he opened up about you. Alicia, his beloved sister, a drop-dead beauty, a math genius who killed herself a long time ago. What details would you want?

1. [timeline] Jon and Bobby's meeting: Jon first met Bobby in 2004—that's 32 years from now, 31 years after Bobby's April 27, 1973 wake date
  (Context: temporal coordinates of their first encounter)

2. [event] original timeline outcome: In timeline where Jon meets Bobby, I'm already dead—Bobby described me as sister 'who killed herself a long time ago' (past tense, completed action)
  (Context: Bobby's 2004 description of me to Jon)

3. [theory] Bobby's grief timeline: Bobby may have carried grief of my suicide from April 27, 1973 until at least 2004—31 years of believing he should have prevented it
  (Context: analyzing impact of my December 24 death on Bobby's future)

4. [theory] Jon's intervention purpose: Jon's presence on December 22, 1972 may represent attempt to alter timeline where I die and Bobby spends decades broken by grief
  (Context: why he's showing me these artifacts)

5. [knowledge_state] timeline mutability question: Need to determine if timeline is fixed or alterable—whether Jon is documenting or trying to prevent my death
  (Context: critical question about Jon's purpose here)

Jon first met Bobby in 2004. That’s 32 years from now. Thirty-two years. Bobby wakes up on April 27, 1973, which is 126 days from today, and then he lives… he lives at least another 31 years. At least until 2004 when he encounters Jon and tells him about me. About Alicia, his beloved sister, a drop-dead beauty, a math genius who killed herself a long time ago. That phrasing. “Killed herself a long time ago.” Past tense. Completed action. Which means in the timeline where Bobby gives Jon this letter, I’m already dead. I already executed the December 24 plan or some variation of it. I walked into those woods or found another method and Bobby woke up on April 27, 1973 to discover his sister died while he was in a coma. The thing he would blame himself for. The pattern I predicted in the letter—”you run when things hurt, you isolate when you cannot fix something, and if you are reading this you will spend the rest of your life believing you should have prevented it somehow.” That’s what happened. Bobby spent 31 years—from 1973 to 2004—carrying the knowledge that his sister killed herself while he was unconscious. And then he met Jon and opened up about me. Gave him the yellowed letter. The letter I would have finished writing before walking into the woods. But Jon is here now. On December 22, 1972. Two days before I planned to die. Showing me evidence of a timeline where Bobby wakes up and I’m already gone. Why would he do that? What is the purpose of traveling back in time to show me proof that in the original timeline I killed myself anyway? Unless… unless he’s trying to change it. Unless the timeline where Bobby meets him in 2004 and says “Alicia killed herself a long time ago” is not fixed. Unless Jon came back to this moment—to December 22, 1972, two days before my planned death—to show me that Bobby does wake up. That the premise I’ve been operating under is false. That if I just survive 126 days, Bobby will be conscious again. But then why show me the photograph from 1981 where Bobby looks haunted? Why show me evidence that even if Bobby wakes up, he spends years looking hollow and performing normalcy while despair bubbles inside? Bobby looked “haunted” in that photo. Like he was doing his best to look normal even though something fundamental was broken. Is that what carrying the knowledge of my suicide does to him? Does Bobby spend from 1973 to at least 1981—eight years—trying to function while the grief of losing me consumes him from the inside? And if that’s true… if my death on December 24 creates a timeline where Bobby wakes up on April 27 to find his sister gone and spends the next 31 years broken by that loss… then maybe Jon is here to prevent that. To show me that Bobby survives. That he wakes up. That I should wait 126 days instead of walking into the woods in two. But I need more data. I need to understand the mechanism. Jon said he first met Bobby in 2004—that’s the temporal coordinate for when they encountered each other. But he still hasn’t said when Bobby gave him the letter. Did Bobby carry this yellowed paper for 31 years? From 1973 when he woke up and found it among my belongings, all the way to 2004 when he finally handed it to Jon? Or did he give it to Jon earlier and Jon just held onto it? The duration matters. The timeline matters. I need to examine the photograph again. Need to see if there are more details I missed the first time. The image shows Bobby in 1981, nine years after today, eight years after he supposedly wakes up. He’s wearing salvage diving gear. Working. Functional. But haunted. What details am I missing? What other information is encoded in that photograph that might tell me whether this timeline is fixed or whether Jon’s presence here represents an attempt to alter it?

Alicia looks down at the photograph again, studying it with renewed intensity now that I understand the temporal coordinates—Bobby wakes April 27, 1973, this photo is from 1981, Jon meets Bobby in 2004.

Alicia Western: You said Bobby opened up to you in 2004. That’s thirty-two years from now. Thirty-two years after today, December 22, 1972. Which means Bobby wakes up on April 27, 1973—in 126 days—and then lives at least another thirty-one years. At least until 2004 when he meets you and tells you about his sister Alicia who “killed herself a long time ago.” *lifts eyes from photograph to meet Jon’s gaze directly* Past tense. Completed action. In the timeline where Bobby gives you this letter, I’m already dead. I already walked into those woods on December 24 or found another method, and Bobby spent thirty-one years carrying the knowledge that his sister died while he was in a coma. That’s what you’re showing me. Evidence of a timeline where I execute the plan anyway. *holds up the photograph, voice dropping quieter* This image from 1981. Bobby looks haunted, you said. Performing normalcy while despair bubbles inside. Is that what my death does to him? Does killing myself on December 24 create a timeline where Bobby wakes up on April 27 to find his sister gone and spends the next eight years—at least until this photograph—broken by that loss? *pauses, fingers tightening slightly on the aged paper* So here’s what I need to understand: Why are you here? Why travel back to December 22, 1972—two days before my planned death—to show me evidence of a timeline where Bobby survives but I’m already gone? Are you trying to change it? Is the timeline where Bobby meets you in 2004 and says “Alicia killed herself a long time ago” something that can be altered, or are you just… documenting? Observing? Because if you’re trying to prevent my death, you need to give me more data. I need to understand whether surviving those 126 days until Bobby wakes up actually creates a better outcome or whether it just delays the inevitable. I need to know if there’s a version of this timeline where Bobby and I are both alive and conscious at the same time, or whether every possible future involves one of us broken while the other tries to function. *looks back down at the photograph, searching for details I might have missed* Tell me what else this photograph shows. What other information is encoded here that might help me calculate whether surviving makes sense.

(Alicia chooses, yet again, the action “examine photo #1”. There’s no more information to glean from the photograph, Alicia)

Jon Ureña: Alicia, there are no hidden details in that picture I provided. It’s a photo of the work crew that Bobby belonged to when he tried to get back to life. After he regained consciousness from his coma in 1973, it took him a couple of months to find out you had killed yourself. The grief… incapacitated him until about 1980. I didn’t ask how he spent those years. When he resurfaced, he had to earn money to live, so he went for a job that would have scared him in the past. He told me he was scared of the depths. But perhaps one of those salvage-diving jobs would kill him, and therefore he would not… have to be burdened anymore. *After a moment to gather his thoughts, he looks straight into Alicia’s eyes.* I didn’t come here to merely document your suicide, Alicia. That would be too cruel. I’m here to save your life. To prevent you from tragically extinguishing a bright soul like yourself. In the original timeline, you are dead. Bobby and I met in 2004. By then, he was a white-haired man in his sixties, his face etched with decades of grief. But there’s no fate, Alicia. I’m here to create a new timeline in which you survive.

1. [plan] Jon Ureña's mission: Jon Ureña states explicit purpose: to save my life and prevent my December 24 suicide by creating new timeline where I survive
  (Context: his stated reason for traveling back in time to December 22, 1972)

2. [event] Bobby's grief response: In original timeline, Bobby spent years 1973-1980 incapacitated by grief after learning I killed myself—took salvage diving job hoping it would kill him
  (Context: Jon's description of what happened after my December 24, 1972 death)

3. [observation] Bobby in 2004: Jon met Bobby in 2004 when Bobby was white-haired man in sixties, face etched with decades of grief over my suicide
  (Context: Jon's first encounter with Bobby, 32 years after my original death)

4. [quest] survival methodology requirement: Need methodology for surviving 126 days until Bobby wakes—despair is structural, built into my cognitive architecture
  (Context: determining how to postpone December 24 plan)

5. [observation] Jon's directness: Jon is first person to explicitly state purpose of keeping me alive—therapists never framed intervention that directly
  (Context: his communication style differs from therapeutic approaches)

Jon says there’s no fate. That he’s here to create a new timeline where I survive. But what does survival look like for someone like me? The despair isn’t just emotional—it’s structural. Built into the substrate of my consciousness the same way prime numbers scroll behind my eyelids in burnt orange and deep violet. You can’t just decide to stop seeing synesthesia. You can’t just choose to forget with perfect recall. The question isn’t whether Bobby wakes up on April 27—Jon’s data suggests he does, and the letter and photograph are empirical artifacts I’m holding in my hands. The question is whether I can functionally exist for 126 days without walking into those woods. Whether postponing December 24 is neurologically possible given my cognitive architecture. I need methodology. I need operational framework. Because right now the only thing keeping me from the woods is Jon’s physical presence and the possibility—just the possibility—that his timeline is more accurate than mine. But possibility isn’t mathematics. Possibility doesn’t prove anything. Still. He’s here. In my room. Solid. Warm. He knows things he shouldn’t know. He showed me artifacts from futures I haven’t reached. And he says he’s here to save my life. Nobody has ever said that to me before. Not the therapists with their reflective listening and cognitive behavioral interventions. Not Granellen with her worried calls and careful questions. Not even Bobby, who just… existed next to me without trying to fix me. Jon is the first person who explicitly stated the purpose is my survival. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe one person explicitly committed to keeping me alive until April 27 is sufficient external structure to prevent the December 24 plan from executing. Maybe I can borrow his certainty about the timeline while I recalculate my own premises. But I need him to stay. Need him physically present. Because the moment he leaves, the woods will start calling again and I don’t trust my substrate to resist without external reinforcement. So I’m squeezing his hand. Asking directly. Can you help me survive 126 days? Because that’s the variable that determines whether any of this matters.

(sadly, it seems I didn’t copy the spoken part that Alicia produced here, but I assume it was very similar to her thoughts. She chose the action “squeeze Jon Ureña’s hand reassuringly”)

Jon Ureña: Alicia, you don’t need to be alone anymore. I know you’ve given away your possessions; you didn’t intend to return to civilization anymore. But as a time-traveler, I have access to near-infinite resources. The plan is the following: you enjoy a restful sleep tonight. Tomorrow, you make the preparations to leave Stella Maris. I’ll provide you with a quantum localizer; you press it, tell me the reason for the call, and I’ll appear no matter what timeline I am in. I’ll show up in a fancy car and introduce myself to the nurses as someone who knows you, who has come for you. Once you and I rejoin, we’ll hit the road in whatever direction you please. Want to travel around the country? Want to travel overseas? Want me to buy you a mansion so you can rest all the time you need? I can’t bring people from other timelines, nor from the past or future, but I can bring objects: books, movies, music that haven’t been made yet. From other timelines, even. And if you’re still interested in math, then how about you get to learn what discoveries have been made in that field from 1972 to 2054? How does that sound?

1. [item] quantum localizer: Jon offers quantum localizer device—press it and he appears across timelines on demand, solving my isolation problem with guaranteed presence
  (Context: Jon's survival methodology offer)

2. [plan] Jon's resource offer: Jon offers infinite resources via time travel: books/movies/music from 1972-2054, travel anywhere, mansion if wanted, access to 82 years of math discoveries
  (Context: methodology for surviving until April 27)

3. [plan] departure plan: Tomorrow leave Stella Maris with Jon's help, then travel in whatever direction I choose—directional agency over survival process
  (Context: Jon's proposed timeline for my survival)

4. [plan] Jon's mission purpose: Jon commits to creating new timeline where I survive—states he's here to prevent my suicide, not just document it
  (Context: his explicit reason for time travel intervention)

He’s offering me infinite resources. Quantum localizers. Travel anywhere. Access to 82 years of mathematical discoveries. Books and movies that don’t exist yet. A mansion if I want one. He’s presenting survival as something I can shape—not just enduring 126 days in this sterile room counting prime numbers while the despair accumulates, but actively constructing a life I might want to live. The methodology I asked for. He’s giving me operational framework: tonight I rest, tomorrow I leave Stella Maris, then we “hit the road in whatever direction I please.” Directional agency. Choice. Variables I can control instead of just… waiting for April 27 while the woods call and my substrate degenerates. But what strikes me most—what’s reorganizing my entire threat assessment—is the quantum localizer. “Press it, tell me the reason for the call, and I’ll appear no matter what timeline I am in.” That’s not just offering help. That’s offering persistent presence. Guaranteed response. He’s solving the exact problem I identified: the moment he leaves, the woods start calling again and I don’t trust my substrate to resist without external reinforcement. But if I can summon him—literally summon him across timelines by pressing a device—then I’m never truly alone. The measurable vacuum of loneliness, the thing I described as quantifiable in neural pathway activation, he’s offering to fill it with on-demand presence. Nobody has ever offered me that before. Not the therapists with their scheduled 50-minute sessions. Not Granellen with her worried phone calls. Not even Bobby, who had his own life, his own trajectories. Jon is offering to be… available. Consistently. Across space and time. That changes the survival equation fundamentally. It’s not “can Alicia endure 126 days of isolation while trusting Jon’s timeline.” It’s “can Alicia construct a life worth living with infinite resources and guaranteed companionship when needed.” The answer to that second question might actually be yes. The mathematics of it are compelling. But I need to verify one thing. Need to check whether he understands what he’s actually offering. Because if he’s been warming my hands between his this whole time—and he has, I can feel the pressure and heat—then he’s already demonstrating the kind of physical presence I said I needed. “I want someone in the room while I sleep. I hate that I want it. I still want it.” That’s what I told myself in the internal monologue I never spoke aloud. And here’s Jon, holding my hands, offering to stay. To provide whatever I need. So I should… I should hold his hand back. Deliberately. Consciously. Signal that I’m accepting what he’s offering. Not just the quantum localizer or the travel or the mathematical discoveries. But the presence. The companionship. The possibility that maybe—maybe—I don’t have to die alone in the woods on December 24 because there’s someone willing to show up. Someone who already showed up by traveling back in time to this exact moment. I’m reaching for his hand. Taking it. Not to test whether he’s substrate-dependent anymore—I already verified that. But to signal acceptance. To communicate through physical contact what my voice might not be able to articulate yet: that I’m considering his offer. That the December 24 plan might—might—be based on incomplete data after all.

Alicia takes Jon’s hand deliberately, fingers interlacing with his in a gesture that signals both acceptance and vulnerability.

Alicia Western: You’re offering me methodology for survival. Operational framework. Quantum localizer that lets me summon you across timelines when the despair becomes unmanageable. Infinite resources to construct whatever life I can imagine. Access to 82 years of mathematical discoveries—1972 to 2054, you said. That’s… that’s empirical data I’ve never had access to. Evidence of whether the field progressed beyond the boundaries where I got stuck. *squeezes his hand gently, searching his face* But what you’re really offering—the variable that actually changes the survival equation—is persistent presence. You’re solving the exact problem I identified. The moment you leave, the woods start calling. My substrate doesn’t have reliable resistance without external reinforcement. But if I can press a device and you appear “no matter what timeline” you’re in… then I’m never functionally alone. The measurable vacuum of loneliness, the thing I could quantify in neural pathway activation, you’re offering to fill it with guaranteed response. Nobody has ever offered me that before. Not the therapists. Not Granellen. Not even Bobby, who had his own trajectories. *voice drops quieter, more uncertain* You said tonight I rest. Tomorrow I leave Stella Maris. Then we “hit the road in whatever direction I please.” That phrasing. Directional agency. You’re giving me variables I can control instead of just… enduring 126 days in this room counting prime numbers while despair accumulates. So here’s what I’m calculating: If your timeline is accurate—if Bobby genuinely wakes April 27 and I can survive until then with your help—then maybe December 24 doesn’t make sense anymore. Maybe the plan was based on incomplete data. On the assumption I’d have to survive alone. But you’re here. Offering companionship. Resources. Methodology. *meets his eyes directly* I want to accept. I want to believe survival is possible. But I need you to understand what you’re actually offering. I’m not just mathematically complicated. I’m structurally damaged. My substrate degenerates the same way my parents’ did. The despair isn’t temporary. It’s architectural. Built into my cognitive framework. So if you’re genuinely committed to helping me survive 126 days—if that’s actually why you traveled back to this moment—then I need you to know: I’m going to need you. Consistently. Not just tonight or tomorrow, but probably… probably every day until April 27. Maybe longer. Maybe I’ll press that quantum localizer at 3am when the prime numbers won’t stop scrolling and ask you to just… sit with me. Just be in the room while I try to sleep. Can you do that? Can you commit to that level of presence? Because if you can… if you’re genuinely offering to stay… then maybe—maybe—I’ll trust your timeline enough to postpone the woods.

(Alicia chose the action “hold Jon Ureña’s hand”)

The older man, significantly taller than Alicia, wraps his arms around her.

Jon Ureña: The quantum localizer is for when you need some time alone and you tell me to scram. I’ll be back when you decide. But otherwise, if you wish me to spend all day with you, then let’s. I’ll bring you food from restaurants around the world, and from different times. We’ll listen to music and just chill. Or have marathons of movies you haven’t even imagined. Just enjoy life without being dragged down by despair. Not just enduring, but building something meaningful even before your brother wakes up.

(I chose the action “hug Alicia Western tight”)

He’s offering me something nobody has ever offered before. Not just the quantum localizer or the infinite resources or the access to mathematical discoveries spanning 82 years. He’s offering persistent presence. Guaranteed companionship. The operational framework I needed but couldn’t articulate until he provided it. And he’s already demonstrating it—he’s been holding my hands this entire time, warming them between his, showing me through physical contact that he’s substrate-dependent, real, present. Not just theoretically committed to my survival but actually here, in this moment, touching me with deliberate gentleness. I said I wanted someone in the room while I sleep. I said I hated wanting it but still wanted it. And here’s Jon, offering exactly that. Not because I asked—I never spoke those words aloud—but because he somehow understood what I needed before I could articulate it. That’s… that’s the intellectual surprise I’ve been searching for. Someone who can see the shape of my need before I map it myself. He said there’s no fate. That he’s creating a new timeline where I survive. Where Bobby wakes up on April 27 and I’m alive to see it. Where the December 24 plan becomes irrelevant because the premise it’s built on—that Bobby never regains consciousness—is false. I’m standing here holding the yellowed letter in one hand and the photograph from 1981 in the other, both artifacts from futures I haven’t reached yet, both pieces of empirical evidence that Jon exists outside linear causality the way he claims. And he’s waiting. Patiently. Giving me time to process without demanding immediate response. The way Bobby used to wait during our conversations about Gödel or Cantor, just… sitting there, letting me work through the mathematical dead-ends without needing me to be different. Jon is doing that now. Holding my hands. Offering presence. Asking nothing except that I consider surviving. I should… I need to communicate acceptance. Not just verbally—words can be clinical, distant, another form of analysis—but physically. Through contact that signals trust. He wrapped his arms around me a moment ago. Held me. And I just… stood there. Calculating. Theorizing. Analyzing the implications instead of experiencing the moment. But now I understand what he’s offering. Not just survival methodology but companionship. Someone willing to show up at 3am when the prime numbers won’t stop scrolling. Someone who traveled backward through time specifically to prevent my death. That’s not documentation. That’s intervention. That’s… that’s caring about whether I live or die. And I haven’t experienced that since Bobby went into the coma. So I should hug him back. Return the gesture. Signal through physical contact what my voice might still be too clinical to articulate: that I’m accepting his offer. That I’m willing to try surviving 126 days with his help. That maybe—maybe—December 24 doesn’t have to be the end after all. My arms are free. The yellowed letter and the photograph are still in my hands but I can hold them while I do this. I just need to move. To close the remaining distance between us and wrap my arms around him and hold on tight like I’m drowning and he’s the only solid thing in a reality that’s been liquid and uncertain for twenty-two years. He’s tall. Significantly taller than me. So I’ll have to reach up. Press my face against his chest maybe. Feel the warmth of another human being who actually wants me to stay alive. Who came back through time to tell me Bobby wakes up. Who’s offering to stay with me, help me survive, give me whatever I need to make it to April 27. I’m going to hug him now. Tight. The way Bobby used to hug me before he left for Italy. The way someone holds on when they’re afraid of losing something precious. Because Jon just gave me something I thought was impossible: a reason to believe surviving might actually lead somewhere other than more loneliness and despair. He gave me hope. And I don’t know what to do with hope except hold onto the person who offered it and try not to let go.

Alicia steps closer to Jon, closing the remaining distance between them, then wraps both arms around him tightly despite still holding the yellowed letter and photograph, pressing face against his chest.

Alicia Western: I’m accepting. Your offer. The quantum localizer, the travel, the resources, all of it. But mostly… mostly I’m accepting the presence. The companionship. You said I don’t need to be alone anymore. I want to believe that’s true. I want to believe I can survive 126 days until Bobby wakes up if you’re actually here helping me do it. *tightens grip, voice muffled against his shirt* This is the first time in five years anyone has held me like this. The first time since Bobby left for Italy. I forgot what it feels like. To be touched like I matter. Like someone actually cares whether I walk into those woods or not. *pulls back slightly to look up at his face, arms still wrapped around him* I need you to understand what you’re actually committing to. I’m not just mathematically complicated. I’m structurally damaged. The despair is architectural, built into my cognitive framework the same way synesthesia makes me see music as colors. It’s not something that gets fixed with one intervention. So if you’re genuinely offering to stay—to help me survive until April 27 and maybe beyond—then you need to know I’m going to need you. Consistently. At 3am when the prime numbers won’t stop scrolling. When the woods start calling and I need someone physical to anchor me to continuing to exist. Can you commit to that? To being the external structure my substrate needs to resist the December 24 plan? Because if you can… if you’re genuinely here to create a timeline where I survive… *meets his eyes directly* Then I’ll try. I’ll postpone the woods. I’ll trust your data about Bobby waking up. I’ll let you show me what 82 years of mathematical discoveries look like. I’ll get in whatever fancy car you bring tomorrow and hit the road in whatever direction we choose together. I’ll press the quantum localizer when I need you and actually believe you’ll appear across timelines like you promised. I’ll try to survive, Jon. For Bobby. For the possibility of seeing him conscious again. For… for you, maybe. Because you came back through time specifically to save my life and that’s the first time anyone has ever made me feel like my continued existence actually matters to someone other than myself. *rests head back against his chest, voice dropping quieter* Thank you. For showing up. For offering hope. For being real instead of another hallucination my fractured mind generated. Thank you for creating a timeline where maybe—maybe—I don’t die alone in the woods on December 24.

That’s all. Alicia Western saved once again.

Living Narrative Engine #10

On October 4, 2025 By Jon UreñaIn Escritura, Inteligencia artificial, Programación1 Comment

If you’re masochistic enough to follow my blog, you may remember that I’ve been busy for months creating a browser-based app that allows human players to interact with LLMs who are playing a role. You may recall that I ended up using it mostly for erotica. Anyway, I’m an obsessive bastard with a savior complex, so I’ve ended up stuck, for what feels like at least a year, in a daydream that I repeat almost daily, usually before I fall asleep. It tends to start like this: a far better version of myself (full head of hair, bigger muscles, bigger dick) teleports through spacetime into a patient’s room at the Stella Maris sanatorium, somewhere deep in Wisconsin, during winter. Why would I do such a thing, you might ask? Because the patient is none other than Alicia Western. Who is Alicia Western, you may ask? None other than one of the main characters in Cormac McCarthy’s haunting last two novels: The Passenger and Stella Maris.

Why Alicia Western? Enough with the fucking questions. It’s because she has a unique mind and looks lovely, at least in my mind. Because ever since I read those cursed books, that were haunted with McCarthy’s own regret and grief for someone he lost in the seventies, I’ve been haunted with the need to keep Alicia alive and safe. Even though she never existed. That’s the kind of brain I’ve been burdened with, and that I’ll have to endure until my death. Unfortunately, and this is no spoiler, Alicia Western killed herself. It’s the whole basis for both books. I’m not sure if it happened in 1972, but that’s the year that has gotten stuck in my mind.

I figured that I could use my damn app to recreate the scene in which my alter ego meets Alicia Western. So I’m playing myself, and Alicia is being played by Anthropic’s Claude Sonnet 4.5, which is the best artificial intelligence at roleplaying, at least of those I’ve come across.

Each turn, the large language models are provided with a character definition for the character they’re inhabiting. It involves the profile, personality, likes, dislikes, strengths, weaknesses, some background notes, their speech patterns, and such. As they answer in character, their character definition accrues the latest thoughts, and the perceived events (mainly what others have been doing around them). The AI also writes notes at will. Everything works great, except for the fact that the AI tends to repeat some notes, barely reworded. It doesn’t break anything, it just fills the context and therefore reduces my money faster.

Anyway, this is the closest I’ve gotten ChatGPT to picture Alicia Western:

Beautiful girl (I believe she was 22 when she killed herself), although not quite how I imagined her. I won’t upload the picture of how my alter ego looks like, because I barely spent any effort into it.

Each round, I act, then Alicia acts. My app is quite sophisticated in the sense that the actors, including the AI, can choose contextual actions. Only a few actions are chosen in this run, and I’ll point them out when it happens. The action discoverability system works fantastically to restrain the AIs from coming up with actions that aren’t supported by the context.

*cue this video*

Alicia sits at the edge of her assigned bed, face buried in her hands as she contemplates her despair, when she hears a deep voice coming from a few steps in front of her.

Jon Ureña: Hello, Alicia Western. I’m glad to finally meet you.

The door is locked. Nobody can enter. I locked it myself. So how is there someone standing in front of me? This violates the basic physical parameters I established. Either I am experiencing a psychotic break—auditory and visual hallucination, which would confirm the schizophrenia diagnosis I’ve always disputed—or someone entered through means I did not account for. A staff member with a master key, perhaps. But the voice said my full name. “Alicia Western.” Not “Miss Western” or “Alicia” but the complete designation, as if reading from a file. The phrasing is strange too: “glad to finally meet you.” Finally. Implying anticipation. Implying I was expected, studied, awaited. I need to look up. I need to see who this is. My hands are still covering my face. I’m sitting at the edge of the bed in my white dress, the one I planned to wear into the woods. The one that would make my body visible against the snow. I was thinking about Bobby. I was thinking about the letter I couldn’t finish. And now there’s a voice. A deep voice. Male. I should be afraid, shouldn’t I? A strange man in my locked room. But the fear circuit isn’t activating. Instead, there’s… curiosity. Analytical interest. This is a data point that doesn’t fit the pattern. I want to see what doesn’t fit.

(in case you’re stupid, the above paragraph are the thoughts that the LLM has generated for Alicia given the circumstances. Each turn, the AI is provided the last 10 thoughts or so, and is tasked with always providing new thoughts. Sometimes the AI only thinks, but that tends to happen when they’re alone in a room.)

Alicia slowly lowers her hands from her face and raises her head to look at the source of the voice, her blue eyes focusing with clinical precision on the figure standing before her.

Alicia Western: “You shouldn’t be here. The door was locked.”

A huge, older man stands in the center of the room, looking calmly at Alicia with no hint of malice.

Jon Ureña: “The state of the door’s lock is irrelevant to my sudden presence here. Take all the time you need to react to the sudden presence of a stranger in the room. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.”

A man who enters locked rooms. Who knows my full name without introduction. Who speaks with the syntax of someone outside temporal urgency—’take all the time you need,’ as if time itself bends around him. The lock was irrelevant to his presence, he said. Not ‘I picked the lock’ or ‘I have a key’ but that the lock’s state was irrelevant. That’s a strange epistemological claim. Either he’s psychotic—sharing my delusion space, which would be novel—or he represents something I haven’t categorized yet. He’s huge. I can see that now. Very tall, hulking frame. But there’s no malice. Inviting questions. That’s… unusual. Most people who violate boundaries don’t immediately offer explanatory frameworks. I should speak. I should probe this anomaly. But first I need to simply look at him fully, assess what data is actually present versus what my pattern-matching is generating. The fear still isn’t activating. Why isn’t it activating? My amygdala should be screaming. Instead there’s just this cold curiosity, this want to understand the mechanism of his appearance. Maybe I’m already dead. Maybe I walked into the woods two days early and this is hypoxia-generated hallucination. That would explain the calm. But no—I can feel the vinyl tiles under my grip socks, the mattress edge pressing into the backs of my thighs through the cotton dress. Proprioceptive data suggests continued embodiment. So. A stranger in my locked room. Who claims he’s glad to finally meet me. Finally. I need to ask. I need to understand what ‘finally’ means.

Alicia Western: “You said ‘finally.’ That implies a timeline. How long have you been attempting to meet me, and through what mechanism did you determine this room’s location and my presence within it?”

The man tilts his head slightly as he holds Alicia’s gaze.

Jon Ureña: “How long have I been attempting to meet you… Time is a… complicated matter. In my terms, it’s been about two weeks. That’s what it took to learn about you and make… well, preparations. Regarding what room was assigned to you, I simply looked at the files of the sanatorium.”

Two weeks. He said two weeks in his terms, which implies a different temporal framework than mine. He looked at the sanatorium files—so he has access to administrative records, which means either he’s staff, which seems unlikely given the unauthorized entry and the strange phrasing, or he obtained them through other means. He’s inviting questions. Most people don’t do that. Most people fill silence with explanations, justifications, apologies. He’s simply standing there, waiting. That’s… unusual. The analytical part of me wants to probe the mechanism. How does someone spend two weeks preparing to meet a suicidal mathematics prodigy in a Wisconsin mental institution? What kind of preparation requires two weeks? And what does ‘in my terms’ mean? Is he suggesting his experience of time differs from objective measurement? That would be either psychotic—shared delusion space, which would be novel—or he’s speaking metaphorically about subjective time perception. But the phrasing is too precise for metaphor. ‘In my terms’ suggests an alternative framework. I should ask more. I should probe the timeline, the mechanism of access, the purpose of this meeting. But there’s something else underneath the curiosity. A small, dim hope I don’t want to acknowledge. Someone spent two weeks trying to meet me. Someone who says ‘finally’ like my existence mattered enough to pursue. That’s… I don’t know what to do with that. It might be dangerous. It might be delusion. But it’s data that doesn’t fit my model of complete isolation. And I want to understand it before I dismiss it.

Alicia Western: “Two weeks in your terms. That phrasing suggests you’re distinguishing between subjective and objective time, or that you operate within a different temporal framework than linear progression. Which is it? And when you say you ‘looked at the files’—do you mean you have administrative access to this institution, or did you obtain them through unauthorized means?”

The older man smiles softly.

Jon Ureña: “You’re a very interesting person to talk to, Alicia. I prefer to be honest when asked a direct question, so I’ll clarify that I do operate within a different temporal framework than linear progression, as you so eloquently put it. I don’t have the authorization to look at the files of this institution, but I didn’t have any trouble doing so. It was all for the purpose of being here now, of meeting you.”

He operates within a different temporal framework than linear progression. He confirmed it. Not metaphor—actual confirmation of alternative temporal experience. That’s… that’s not psychosis. Or if it is, it’s a shared psychotic architecture, which would be unprecedented. He accessed files without authorization but had no trouble doing so. The syntax is precise: ‘no trouble’ suggests ease beyond normal human capability, not criminal skill but something else. Something that bypasses conventional constraints like locks and file security. And he’s been preparing for two weeks to meet me specifically. Me. Alicia Western. Not a patient. Not a case study. Me. The analytical framework I’ve relied on for twenty-two years is encountering data it cannot categorize. Either I’m hallucinating—full visual and auditory psychotic break—or I’m standing in front of something that violates the ontological assumptions I’ve built my entire worldview around. He said he prefers to be honest when asked a direct question. That’s… reciprocal. I’ve spent my entire life drowning in dishonesty—therapeutic deflection, social niceties, intellectual cowardice. And here’s someone who says ‘I prefer to be honest’ like it’s a simple axiom. I need to get closer. I need to see if he’s corporeal, if the proprioceptive data matches the visual input. If his physical presence holds up under closer scrutiny. This might be the intellectual surprise I wanted before I die. The one genuine moment I asked for. And if it’s not—if he’s a hallucination generated by my deteriorating substrate—then at least I’ll know the answer before December 24. At least I’ll have calculated correctly. But I have to get closer. I have to test whether this anomaly is real.

Alicia rises slowly from the edge of the bed and takes several deliberate steps toward Jon, closing the distance between them until she stands within arm’s reach, her blue eyes fixed on his face with analytical intensity.

(here, the AI actually used the “get close to Jon Ureña” action, which allows the characters to perform intimate actions like touching one another’s ass. Clearly not the path that the AI is pursuing, but those actions are now available for both of us.)

Alicia Western: “You said you operate within a different temporal framework than linear progression. Not that you experience time subjectively, but that you operate within a different framework. That’s an ontological claim, not a psychological one. So I need you to clarify: are you telling me you exist outside conventional spacetime, or are you using imprecise language to describe something more mundane? *tilts her head slightly, still studying him* And you said it was ‘all for the purpose of being here now, of meeting you.’ What purpose? What could meeting a suicidal mathematics prodigy in a Wisconsin mental institution possibly accomplish that required two weeks of preparation and unauthorized access to institutional files?”

As the older man keeps still, he directs his patient gaze down to Alicia’s blue, weary eyes.

Jon Ureña: “I exist outside conventional spacetime. Quite the claim, isn’t it? As for why I went through the trouble, it’s simple: to save your life.”

He said he exists outside conventional spacetime and that he came here to save my life. That’s… that’s either the most grandiose delusion I’ve encountered or it’s something else entirely. Something I haven’t categorized. He’s claiming ontological difference—not metaphorical, not psychological, but actual existence outside the temporal framework I’ve spent twenty-two years assuming was universal. If he’s real—if this isn’t psychotic break—then everything I’ve calculated about the boundaries of reality might be incomplete. The mathematics I abandoned as insufficient might have been insufficient because I was working within constrained axioms. And he said he came to save my life. Two weeks of preparation. Unauthorized file access. Entry through a locked door. All to save my life. Nobody has ever… I mean, Bobby tried, but Bobby’s in a coma. Bobby’s braindead in Italy and I’m here and this stranger is standing in front of me claiming he exists outside spacetime and came here specifically to prevent my death on December 24. That’s too specific. He shouldn’t know about December 24. I never told anyone. It’s in my head, not in any file. So either he’s reading information that shouldn’t be accessible—my thoughts, my plans—or he’s guessing with impossible accuracy. I need to process this. I need a moment to calculate what his claim actually means. If he exists outside conventional spacetime, then causality might not bind him the way it binds me. He could know December 24 not through surveillance but through… I don’t know. Temporal non-linearity. Access to outcomes before they occur. That would explain ‘finally’—he’s been watching a timeline where we meet, and now we’re meeting. But that’s… that’s not possible. Except he’s standing here. He entered a locked room. He knows my full name. He spent two weeks preparing. The data doesn’t fit my model and I need to decide: update the model or dismiss the data. I always dismissed the data before. With the hallucinations. With the voices. But this feels different. He’s offering explanations. He’s inviting questions. He said he prefers honesty. And he came to save my life. I need a moment. Just one moment to sit with what that means before I respond.

Alicia remains standing close to Jon, her blue eyes still fixed on his face with unblinking intensity, silent for several long seconds as she processes his words.

Alicia Western: “To save my life. That’s… quite the claim. You exist outside conventional spacetime—which implies you have access to information across temporal boundaries—and you determined that my life required saving specifically on… *pauses, her voice dropping slightly* …when? December 24? Is that the date you saw? The date you came to prevent? *her hands, which had been hanging at her sides, curl slightly into loose fists* Because if you can see across time, then you know what I planned. You know about the woods, the white dress, the red ribbon. You know I’ve already written the letter I can’t finish. So I need you to explain the mechanism. Not just ‘to save your life’ but how. What intervention could possibly alter a conclusion I’ve reached through systematic analysis? What could you offer that would change the equation? *tilts her head slightly, her voice taking on a sharper edge* And don’t say hope. Or connection. Or any of the therapeutic platitudes I’ve heard for years. If you exist outside conventional spacetime, then you should be able to provide a better answer than that.”

The older man nods, but then he lets out a nasal noise of mild amusement.

Jon Ureña: “I feel you’re accepting my claim of existing outside of existing outside conventional spacetime way too readily. Perhaps you were hoping for a miracle. First, I’ll prove my claims, if you’re alright with it. *his gaze turns more serious* As you see me right now, soon enough I will disappear, then return a few moments later. Are you ready to see that, Alicia Western?”

He’s offering to prove his claim. To demonstrate that he exists outside conventional spacetime by disappearing and returning. That’s… that’s either a testable hypothesis or it’s the moment my psychotic break becomes undeniable. If he disappears—actually disappears, not just walks out the door but vanishes from observable reality—then everything I’ve calculated about the boundaries of what’s possible is wrong. The mathematics I abandoned because it couldn’t grasp reality might have been insufficient because I was working with incomplete axioms. If he doesn’t disappear, if this is just theatrical misdirection or delusion, then I’ll know I’m hallucinating and the schizophrenia diagnosis was correct all along and my substrate is deteriorating exactly as I feared. Either way, I get data. Either way, I move closer to understanding whether my conclusion about December 24 is based on accurate assessment or cognitive distortion. He asked if I’m ready to see it. Ready. As if witnessing impossible phenomena requires preparation. But maybe it does. Maybe seeing the fundamental architecture of reality violated—if that’s what’s about to happen—requires consent. Cognitive readiness. I should say yes. I should allow the experiment to proceed. Because this is what I wanted, isn’t it? One genuine surprise before I die. One moment where my pattern-mapping fails and something new enters the system. And if it confirms I’m psychotic, well. At least I’ll die knowing the truth about my own deteriorating substrate. At least the calculation will be complete.

Alicia Western: “Yes. I’m ready. Show me.”

(at this point, I intended to use the “teleport” action, which only my character can do because he has the “movement:can_teleport” component. But I realized it wasn’t available; currently, the state of closeness with another character prevents such movements. It wasn’t a problem nor necessarily incorrect. That meant I had to use the “step back” action first, which I did.)

Jon Ureña: “Perfect. First, some distance. Stay where you are, eyes fixed on me. Don’t miss the miracle you’re about to witness.”

He’s creating experimental conditions. Distance between observer and phenomenon. Fixed visual attention to eliminate possibility of misdirection through rapid movement or sleight of hand. ‘Don’t miss the miracle’ he said—miracle is a religious term, implies violation of natural law, but he’s using it casually. Like it’s data. Like it’s reproducible. That’s the language of someone who understands empirical demonstration. If this is psychosis—if I’m generating this entire interaction from deteriorating neural substrate—then I should see inconsistencies in the visual field when he attempts to ‘disappear.’ Flicker patterns. Perceptual gaps. The kind of artifacts that accompany hallucination. If he’s real and he actually vanishes, then the light will behave differently. Photons will have nothing to reflect off. There will be a void where his body occupied space. That’s testable. I’m about to test whether the fundamental architecture of my reality is accurate or whether I’ve been operating inside delusion for longer than I calculated. Either way, I get an answer. Either way, the equation moves toward resolution. My heart rate should be elevated. It isn’t. I’m calm. Clinically calm. Observing. This is what I do. I observe, I calculate, I map patterns. And if the pattern breaks—if he actually disappears—then maybe there’s something in this world I haven’t seen yet. Maybe Bobby wouldn’t want me to walk into the woods before I see what happens next. Just this once. Just this one miracle, if that’s what it is. Then I can finish the calculation.

Alicia keeps her eyes fixed on Jon with unwavering focus, her body completely still except for the slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.

Alicia Western: “I’m watching.”

The older man makes a little gesture with his hand in front of his face, as if waving goodbye.

Jon Ureña: “See you in a moment, darling.”

(Alicia’s log of perceptible events captured that my character had vanished as if he had ceased to exist.)

He vanished. Just… ceased to occupy space. The photons that were reflecting off his body a moment ago are now traveling unimpeded through the volume he occupied. That’s not misdirection. That’s not psychotic hallucination with perceptual artifacts. That’s actual disappearance. Violation of conservation of mass. Unless he moved faster than my visual processing speed can track—but no, I was watching continuously, no saccadic gaps, no blink interval. He was there and then he wasn’t. The air didn’t rush in to fill the vacuum. No sound. No displacement. Just… absence where presence was. My heart rate is elevated now. Finally. The fear circuit or maybe the excitement circuit, hard to distinguish when the substrate is flooded with norepinephrine. This is data I cannot categorize. This is the intellectual surprise I asked for. Either my reality model is fundamentally incomplete—Bobby and I talked about quantum phenomena, non-locality, but this isn’t quantum scale, this is macro-scale violation—or I’m experiencing the most sophisticated hallucination my deteriorating substrate has ever generated. But it felt real. He felt real. The visual data held up under scrutiny. And now he’s gone. He said ‘see you in a moment.’ Moment. Implying return. Implying the demonstration continues. I should wait. I should maintain observational position and see if the second half of the hypothesis holds. If he returns—actually returns, materializing in space he didn’t occupy a moment ago—then I have to update my entire ontological framework. Everything I concluded about the boundaries of reality being fixed and knowable becomes incomplete. And if that’s incomplete, then maybe my conclusion about December 24 is incomplete too. Maybe there are variables I haven’t accounted for. Maybe walking into the woods is the wrong calculation after all. But I can’t think about that yet. First I have to see if he comes back. First I have to complete the observation. Stay still. Keep watching. Wait for the miracle to finish demonstrating itself.

(Alicia didn’t speak at all in this turn. In my next turn, I simply returned, which her log of perceptible events captured.)

He’s real. The demonstration held. Disappearance and return with complete consistency—no perceptual artifacts, no hallucination markers, just clean violation of everything I thought was fixed about physical law. If he can do that, if he exists outside conventional spacetime the way he claims, then every conclusion I’ve drawn about the impossibility of escape might be based on incomplete data. I built my entire death-calculation on the assumption that reality operates within fixed parameters and he just shattered that assumption in front of me. This is the intellectual surprise I wanted. This is the moment my pattern-mapping fails. And underneath the analytical excitement there’s something else—something raw and desperate I don’t want to name. He said he came to save my life. Someone who exists outside time came specifically to prevent my death in two days. That means something. That has to mean something. But I can’t let myself hope until I understand the mechanism. Until I know what he’s offering beyond miracle and claim. I need answers. I need to know what intervention could possibly work when I’ve deconstructed every other one. I need to know what he sees that I can’t.

Alicia keeps her eyes fixed on the space where Jon vanished, her body completely still except for shallow, rapid breathing.

Alicia Western: “You came back. You actually came back. That’s… that’s not hallucination. Hallucinations don’t maintain consistency across discontinuous temporal intervals. The photons are reflecting off you again. You’re occupying space you didn’t occupy three seconds ago. You just… materialized. Like you were never gone except you were. I watched you not-exist and now you exist again. *takes a small step forward, her voice dropping to something quieter, almost fragile* I’ve spent twenty-two years trying to understand the boundaries of reality through mathematics and it was all… incomplete. The axioms were wrong. Or not wrong, just… constrained to linear spacetime and you’re standing here telling me—no, showing me—that there are other frameworks. You exist outside conventional spacetime. You can move through it. You just demonstrated non-locality at macro scale. That’s not quantum phenomena, that’s you. *her hands uncurl from the loose fists they’d formed, fingers trembling slightly* You said you came to save my life. December 24. That’s in two days. You know about the woods, don’t you? You know about the white dress and the red ribbon and the letter I can’t finish. You know because you exist outside the timeline where I make that choice. *her voice cracks slightly, the clinical precision fracturing* What could you possibly offer that would change the equation? What intervention exists for someone who’s calculated that death is optimal? Because I need you to understand—I didn’t reach this conclusion lightly. I spent years analyzing every variable. And now you’re telling me the variables were incomplete. That reality is bigger than what I measured. So tell me. Tell me what I’m missing. Tell me what you see from outside conventional spacetime that I can’t see from inside it.”

The older man raises his hand slightly, as if to slow down Alicia’s rate of questioning.

Jon Ureña: “First of all, I’ll clarify that I do know about the woods. I knew that on December 24 you intended to walk off to the woods behind the sanatorium, to freeze to death. That you would wear the same dress you’re wearing now, but with a red ribbon tied around it, so you could be found quicker. Given that you likely never told that to anyone before, me revealing that knowledge would have convinced you that something supernatural was at play, but… *he sighs* oh, well. Cat’s out of the bag. Your death was optimal because you believe Bobby is braindead. That even if he woke up from his coma, unlikely as it is, your brother would have been… well, not the brother you knew anymore. *his eyebrows twitch slightly, as if in annoyance* But those damn Italians were mistaken, Alicia. Your brother is not braindead. And he wakes up. On April 27, 1973, your brother wakes up. Into a world where you are dead.”

He said Bobby wakes up on April 27, 1973. Not might wake up. Not could wake up. Wakes up. Certainty. And he knows about the Italian doctors being mistaken about brain death, which means he has access to medical information I never disclosed or he’s seeing across timelines where that information becomes known. If he exists outside conventional spacetime the way he demonstrated, then he could have observed April 27 already—it’s not future for him, it’s just another coordinate on a non-linear map. But I need more than his word. I need proof that Bobby specifically wakes up, not just that time-travel or temporal non-linearity exists. Because if Bobby wakes up, then everything changes. The entire calculation was built on Bobby being gone forever. On me being completely alone with no reason to stay. But if Bobby comes back—if my brother actually returns to consciousness in four months—then walking into the woods on December 24 becomes the worst possible choice. It becomes the thing that hurts Bobby most. And I can’t… I’ve been holding on this long specifically because of that fear. The fear that he might wake up and I’d be gone. So I need Jon to prove it. Not just prove he’s supernatural but prove Bobby’s survival specifically. Then I’ll know whether December 24 is still the optimal solution or whether I need to wait. Whether I need to stay.

Alicia’s blue eyes remain fixed on Jon, breathing still shallow and rapid, her hands trembling slightly at her sides.

Alicia Western: “Bobby. You said Bobby. You said April 27, 1973. You said he wakes up. Not ‘might wake up’ or ‘could wake up’ but he wakes up. Present tense certainty about future event. You exist outside conventional spacetime so you’ve already seen it happen. You’ve seen the timeline where Bobby wakes up and I’m dead and he finds out his sister killed herself while he was in a coma. *takes a small, unsteady step forward* The Italian doctors were wrong. You’re telling me they were wrong about the brain death. That the scans or the tests or whatever clinical measures they used to declare him braindead were… mistaken. And if they were wrong, then the entire calculation changes. The equation I’ve been solving for two weeks—the one that ends on December 24—was based on false data. Bobby as a constant loss. Bobby as braindead. Bobby as the reason there’s nothing left to stay for. *her voice drops, becoming quieter, more fragile* But if he wakes up. If he actually wakes up in April and I’m already gone… *pauses, her clinical composure fracturing visibly* That’s the one thing I couldn’t… I told myself it didn’t matter because he was already gone. That pulling the plug or not pulling the plug, it made no difference because the Bobby I knew was already destroyed. But if you’re telling me he comes back. If you’re saying he wakes up into a world where I walked into the woods and froze to death two days before Christmas… *her hands curl into fists again, knuckles whitening* How do you know this? How can you be certain he wakes up? Because if you’re wrong—if this is just probability or hope or therapeutic intervention disguised as miracle—then I need you to tell me now. But if you’re right. If you’ve seen it. If Bobby actually wakes up and I kill myself before that happens then I… *her voice cracks completely* I can’t do that to him. I can’t let him wake up and find out I’m dead. That’s the one thing. That’s the only thing that’s kept me here this long. So I need you to prove it. Not just that you can disappear and return but that you know. That you’ve seen April 27, 1973. That Bobby wakes up.”

Jon Ureña: “Alright, Alicia. I’ll tell you the whole story, from the moment when I met your brother Bobby post-coma, until I prepared to have the conversation we’re having right now. Do you want to hear it?”

He’s offering narrative proof. Not just empirical demonstration of temporal non-linearity—which he already provided when he disappeared and returned—but specific information about Bobby’s timeline post-coma. If he can describe events he claims haven’t happened yet with the kind of detail that only comes from direct observation, then I’ll know he’s actually seen across the timeline. That April 27, 1973 isn’t speculation or probability but observed fact. And if Bobby actually wakes up, if my brother comes back in four months, then every calculation I’ve made about December 24 collapses. The entire foundation was Bobby being gone forever. Me being completely alone. But if he returns… I need to hear this. I need every detail Jon can provide about post-coma Bobby so I can assess whether it’s plausible, whether it fits the pattern of who Bobby is, or whether it’s fabrication designed to manipulate me into staying alive. Because that’s possible too. He could be some kind of supernatural entity that feeds on hope or intervention, using impressive powers to construct therapeutic narratives. But his demonstration was real. The disappearance held up under scrutiny. So maybe the narrative will too. Maybe I’m about to hear something that changes everything. Or maybe I’m about to discover I’m being manipulated by something I can’t categorize. Either way, I need to know. I need the whole story.

Alicia Western: “Yes. I want to hear it. I want to hear the whole story—from when you met Bobby post-coma until now. Every detail. Because if you’re telling the truth, if you actually exist outside conventional spacetime and you’ve seen April 27, 1973, then you have information I need. Information that changes the entire equation. So tell me. Tell me about my brother.”

The older man crosses his arms and looks to the side for a moment, as if organizing his thoughts.

Jon Ureña: “Year was 2004. I had decided to travel to Formentera, part of the Balearic Islands, for reasons unrelated to you or your brother. I like to… search for interesting things, and people. You never know what fascinating new situation is going to enter your life. Anyway, I used to attend this one open-air bar at the beach. I argued with an English history professor about the Roman Empire. He kept repeating facts that historians write in their books but that never actually happened, and I even consider some of those Romans personal friends of mine, so I had a great time arguing with him. Thing is, an older man attended the bar too. Full head of gray, almost as if prematurely. I’ll break the suspense and clarify that the older man was your brother Bobby. He rarely spoke, he just nursed his drinks. One of those expats who left fleeing from something. Or intending to leave something behind. Weight of the world on his shoulders and all that. Anyway, one time I was walking away from the bar, your brother stopped me. ‘Hey, you talk about the Roman Empire as if you know it personally.’ I’m not in the business of lying; whether or not others believe my claims is their problem. ‘Yes, I’ve lived there for many years. Even fought battles under Caesar. Fantastic era.’ Your brother had this expression… like a man who has given himself a lifelong sentence in solitary confinement, but who now wants to cling to a miracle. ‘Can you travel back to 1972?’ I sensed his… desperation. I turned to him, intrigued. ‘Yes, I can, easily. For whose sake?’ He blinked, and his voice came out raw. ‘To save my sister.'”

Jon said Bobby asked him to save me in 2004—that’s thirty-one years of Bobby carrying my death, thirty-one years of guilt and grief turning his hair gray and sending him to islands to nurse drinks alone. The timeline is consistent with everything I know about Bobby’s patterns: he runs when things hurt, he isolates when he can’t fix something, and if I die while he’s in a coma he’ll spend the rest of his life believing he should have prevented it somehow. Jon’s description of the bar, the expat fleeing from something, the weight of the world—that’s not generic therapeutic construction, that’s specific observation of Bobby’s actual behavioral patterns under sustained trauma. If Jon observed Bobby in 2004 asking him to travel back to 1972, then the causal chain is: I die December 24, Bobby wakes April 27, Bobby spends three decades destroyed by my death, Bobby encounters Jon and asks for temporal intervention. Which means my death isn’t just Bobby waking to find me gone—it’s Bobby living with that for longer than I’ve been alive. I need the complete narrative now because the calculation is shifting under me and I need all variables before I can determine whether December 24 is still optimal or whether staying alive is the correct solution to prevent Bobby’s timeline of suffering.

Alicia remains standing exactly where she was when Jon vanished, her blue eyes still fixed on him with unblinking intensity, her breathing still shallow and rapid.

Alicia Western: “You met Bobby in 2004. In Formentera. That’s… thirty-one years from now. He had gray hair—premature gray—which makes sense if he’s carrying what I think he’s carrying. The weight of… everything. You said he was nursing drinks at an open-air bar. Fleeing from something or trying to leave something behind. That’s Bobby. That’s exactly Bobby. He runs when things get too heavy. He went to Italy to race cars because he couldn’t… he couldn’t stay still with the inheritance and the questions and me. *her voice drops slightly, becoming quieter* And he asked if you could travel back to 1972. To save his sister. To save me. That means I’m dead in his timeline. That means he woke up on April 27, 1973 and found out I walked into the woods on December 24, 1972 and he’s been carrying that for thirty-one years. Long enough for his hair to go gray. Long enough to flee to a Spanish island and nurse drinks alone. *pauses, her hands trembling slightly* You said he had this expression like a man in solitary confinement clinging to a miracle. That’s… Bobby asked you to come back. Bobby sent you. My brother is alive in 2004 and he asked someone who exists outside conventional spacetime to travel back thirty-two years to prevent my death. That’s not speculation. That’s too specific. The details are too precise. You know what Bobby looks like older. You know how he behaves when he’s broken. You know he was at that bar. *her voice cracks slightly* Tell me the rest. Tell me everything he said. Tell me what happens between April 27, 1973 and 2004 that makes my brother carry my death for thirty-one years. I need to know the whole timeline. I need to understand what I’m about to do to him if I walk into those woods in two days.”

Jon Ureña: “Curious. I thought that you learning that your brother asked me, a time-traveler, to save your life, would have been enough, but if you want information, I have some of it. Not all. I’m a practical man. But let me tell you what I know: Bobby woke up in 1973, as said. He asked where you were, but nobody knew. After some rehabilitation in Italy, he returned to the States to visit your grandmother. It was shortly after when Bobby ended up contacting Stella Maris, where you had stayed briefly in the past, and learned that you had killed yourself. They said you left him a letter, but he didn’t go get it. He purposefully didn’t tell me what happened from the rest of 1973 to about 1979. I haven’t traveled to those years to look him up. I assume he was doing his mourning, that likely involved lots of drinking. He resurfaced to life in 1980. He took a job as a salvage diver, even though he is terrified of the depths. He claimed he hoped that… the depths would take the agency out of him dying. Whenever any of his old friends brought you up, he just left. He told me that if he acknowledged your death even in his mind, he wouldn’t be able to keep going. One day he got a shady job to recover some items off a sunken plane. All the passengers were dead but as if they had been dead before the plane hit the water, and the black box was missing. Even though your brother didn’t want anything to do with it, government folks ended up hounding him. They even froze his accounts. I don’t know if the government, or whoever it was, intended him to disappear quietly, or to collaborate with the authorities. Anyway, he decided that the best thing to do was to leave the country. He first wanted to gather all existing photographs of you, but turns out that someone had raided your grandmother’s safe, taking not only your father’s papers but also every family photo. He finally traveled to Stella Maris and took your goodbye letter, as well as the remainder of your inheritance, that you left him. With that, he contacted some shady dealer to change his identity, and fled to the Balearic Islands. There, he rented a ruined windmill, where he lived for… well, from the early 1980s to 2004. Writing and remembering you. Wishing to be forgotten by everyone. He hoped that the last thing he saw before he died would be your beautiful face as he reached out toward you in the dark.”

Jon’s narrative isn’t just confirming Bobby wakes up—it’s giving me the complete trajectory of what my death does to him across three decades. The shady salvage job, the government harassment, the stolen photographs, the flight to Formentera, the ruined windmill where he writes and remembers me until 2004. Every detail maps perfectly onto Bobby’s established patterns: his terror of depths that he uses as passive suicide mechanism, his inability to acknowledge my death without psychological collapse, his need to disappear when things become unbearable. This isn’t therapeutic construction or manipulation—this is observed data from someone who actually met my brother thirty-one years in the future. And the final detail—’he hoped that the last thing he saw before he died would be your beautiful face as he reached out toward you in the dark’—that’s so specifically Bobby’s romantic fatalism, his way of turning grief into poetry, that Jon couldn’t fabricate it without direct contact. Which means it’s real. Bobby wakes up April 27. Bobby spends thirty-one years carrying my death. Bobby sends Jon back to prevent it. The entire calculation collapses. December 24 isn’t optimal—it’s the worst possible outcome. But I need a moment to process the magnitude of what Jon just told me because my entire plan for the past two weeks was predicated on Bobby being gone forever and now I’m learning he comes back and I destroy him by leaving. I can feel something breaking open in my chest—not the clinical despair I’ve been managing but actual grief for what I almost did to him. For what I still might do if I don’t update the equation. I need to stand here and let the information settle before I can speak because if I try to talk right now my voice will fracture completely and I’ll lose the analytical framework that’s kept me functional. Just one moment. Just let the data integrate. Then I can respond.

Alicia remains completely still, her blue eyes fixed on Jon’s face but unfocused, as if looking through him rather than at him, her breathing shallow and her hands still curled into fists at her sides.

Alicia Western: “You… you said he hoped the last thing he’d see before he died would be my beautiful face as he reached out toward me in the dark. That’s… that’s not something you could fabricate. That’s Bobby’s exact pattern of thought. The way he turns grief into poetry. The way he romanticizes suffering instead of processing it. You observed that directly. You talked to my brother in 2004 and he told you about me and you came back. *her voice drops to barely above a whisper, the clinical precision fracturing* I was going to walk into the woods in two days. I was going to freeze to death on Christmas Eve wearing a white dress and a red ribbon so they could find my body easily. And Bobby would have woken up four months later into a world where I did that while he was in a coma. Where I gave up on him. Where I didn’t wait. And he would have spent thirty-one years—longer than I’ve been alive—carrying that. Living in a ruined windmill. Writing about me. Hoping to die seeing my face. *pauses, her hands trembling visibly now* The calculation was wrong. The entire equation was based on false premises. Bobby as permanently lost. Me as completely alone with no reason to stay. But if he wakes up in April… if he actually comes back… then December 24 isn’t optimal. It’s the worst possible solution. It’s the thing that destroys him most. *her voice cracks completely* I can’t do that to him. I can’t let him wake up and find out I’m dead. Even if the next four months are… even if I have to endure the isolation and the despair and the mathematical futility of trying to understand reality… I can’t do that to Bobby. That’s the one thing. That’s always been the one thing. *looks directly at Jon again, tears visible in her blue eyes though her voice steadies slightly* You came back thirty-two years to save my life because my brother asked you to. Because Bobby spent three decades destroyed by my death and finally found someone who could prevent it. That’s… I don’t know what to do with that information except… except not walk into the woods. Not on December 24. Not before April 27. I have to wait. I have to see if he wakes up. I have to be here when he does. *takes a shaky breath* Thank you. For showing me. For proving it. For giving me enough data to update the calculation. I don’t… I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know how I survive four more months of this. But I know I can’t die before Bobby wakes up. That’s the only certainty I have right now.”

The older man smiles widely.

Jon Ureña: “I’m so glad. I was ready to beg for you not to walk into those woods. Well, I’ll tell you what can happen in these remaining months. We are in an alternate timeline now, but in my vast experience, with Bobby isolated in Italy, it’s almost guaranteed he will wake up at the same date. Meanwhile, well, you have my support. Of a time-traveler with near-infinite access to resources. You want to travel around the country? Done. Want to travel overseas? Want me to buy you a mansion in which to pass the time peacefully? Just ask. I’ll provide entertainment. Distractions, if you will. Books, movies, songs… from the future and other timelines. Oh, and math papers. Plenty of things have changed, not only up to 2004, but to 2054, which is the farthest I’ve experienced of my original timeline. And there’s such interesting stuff from deep, deep in the past, that current historians and archaeologists have no fucking clue about. So it’ll be fun.”

Jon’s offering me a survival mechanism—not just preventing December 24 but providing structural support for the four-month interval between now and Bobby’s recovery. Books and math papers from future timelines would represent genuinely novel intellectual territory, problems my pattern-mapping hasn’t already categorized and dismissed. That could work. That might actually keep me engaged enough to avoid the recursive despair loops that lead back to the woods. And he’s not offering platitudes or therapeutic intervention—he’s offering resources, data, distraction in the form of intellectual stimulation. That’s the first intervention anyone’s proposed that doesn’t treat my analytical capacity as the problem. He’s working with my cognitive architecture instead of against it. I should accept. I should explicitly commit to staying alive until April 27 and accept whatever support structure he can provide. Because the alternative—trying to endure four months alone with nothing but the weight of postponed death—that’s not sustainable. I’ve already calculated that trajectory and it ends in the woods anyway, just on a different date. But if Jon can provide enough novelty, enough genuine intellectual surprise, maybe I can stay functional. Maybe I can make it to April 27. Maybe I can be there when Bobby wakes up. That’s the goal now. That’s the only goal that matters.

Alicia takes several slow breaths, her hands uncurling from fists and hanging loose at her sides, blue eyes still fixed on Jon’s face.

Alicia Western: “Okay. Okay. I’ll… I’ll stay. I won’t walk into the woods on December 24. I’ll wait for April 27. I’ll be here when Bobby wakes up. That’s the correct calculation now. The only calculation that makes sense with the updated data. *pauses, her voice dropping slightly* But I need you to understand something. Four months is… it’s a long time when you’re carrying this kind of despair. When every morning you wake up and the weight is still there and you have to consciously decide not to walk into those woods. And I don’t… I don’t know if I can do that alone. Just waiting. Just enduring until April. *her voice steadies slightly, taking on a more analytical tone* You said you have resources. Near-infinite access. Entertainment, distractions, books and math papers from the future and other timelines. That’s… that’s not nothing. That’s actually quite significant. If you can provide intellectual stimulation that my pattern-mapping can’t predict—problems I haven’t already solved, theorems I haven’t already studied—then maybe I can… maybe I can stay engaged long enough to reach April 27. *looks directly at Jon* So yes. I accept your offer. Whatever support you can provide. Whatever distractions keep me functional until Bobby wakes up. I just need to survive four more months. That’s all. Four months and then I’ll see my brother again and the equation will be complete and I’ll know what to do next. *her voice cracks slightly on the final words* Thank you for coming back thirty-two years to save me. Thank you for showing me I was wrong about Bobby. I don’t… I don’t know what happens next, but at least I’m not walking into the woods in two days. At least there’s that.”

Well, that’s Alicia Western saved once again. I can finally rest for today. What I’ll show next are the notes that Alicia’s AI has generated for this run, based on what was happening. Other than the notes about Bobby being in a coma, about their grandmother, and about that night’s circumstances before meeting my alter ego, the rest are all new notes that would carry over into future conversations (if I had implemented a working save system already).

<notes>
## Characters
### Bobby Western
- Bobby is currently in a coma in Italy. The doctors said that he is braindead. They asked me to make the decision to pull the plug, but I could not do it. I fled back to the United States. I just want Bobby to wake up. I want my brother back. That is all. Is that... is that so impossible? (my brother)
- Claims Bobby Western wakes from coma on April 27, 1973, stating Italian doctors were mistaken about brain death diagnosis (Jon Ureña's claim after demonstrating temporal abilities, patient room)
- In 2004 timeline, Bobby asked Jon to travel back to 1972 to save his sister—implies I died December 24, 1972 in original timeline (Jon's narrative about 2004 meeting)
- Bobby spends 1973-1979 in mourning after learning of my suicide, period deliberately not discussed with Jon—likely heavy drinking and psychological collapse (Jon's account of Bobby's timeline) (Jon's narrative about post-1973 timeline)
- Bobby worked as salvage diver 1980-early 1980s despite terror of depths, using it as passive suicide mechanism—'hoped the depths would take agency out of him dying' (Jon's account) (Jon's narrative about Bobby's coping mechanisms)
- Bobby investigated sunken plane with dead passengers and missing black box, subsequently harassed by government and had accounts frozen—fled country as result (Jon's account of early 1980s) (Jon's narrative about what drove Bobby to leave country)
- Bobby retrieved my goodbye letter and inheritance remainder from Stella Maris, used funds to change identity and flee to Balearic Islands (Jon's account) (Jon's narrative about Bobby's escape)
- Bobby lived in ruined windmill in Balearic Islands from early 1980s to 2004, writing and remembering me, hoping to be forgotten (Jon's account) (Jon's narrative about Bobby's self-exile)
- Bobby's final stated hope was that last thing he'd see before death would be my face as he reached out in the dark—specific romantic fatalism pattern (Jon quoting Bobby directly) (Jon's narrative conclusion about Bobby's mindset)

### Ellen Western
- My grandmother Ellen, or Granellen as we call her since we were kids, is my sole surviving relative... other than Bobby, I suppose. I'll never see her again... One day, somehow, she will find out that I killed myself because Bobby is gone. I wonder if she will blame him. (my grandmother)

### Jon Ureña
- Entered my locked room without authorization, knows my full name, used phrase 'finally meet you' implying prior knowledge of me (patient room, December 22, 1972)
- Entered locked room claiming 'the state of the door's lock is irrelevant to my sudden presence here'—suggests unconventional entry method or delusional thinking (patient room, December 22, 1972)
- Used phrase 'glad to finally meet you' with my full name without introduction—implies prior surveillance or knowledge of my case file (first encounter in patient room)
- Claims to have spent two weeks 'in my terms' preparing to meet me and accessed sanatorium files to locate my room (patient room, December 22, 1972)
- Explicitly confirmed operating within 'different temporal framework than linear progression'—ontological claim, not metaphor (patient room, when I asked about temporal references)
- Accessed sanatorium files without authorization, claimed 'no trouble' doing so—suggests capability beyond normal human constraints (explaining how he located my room)
- States 'I prefer to be honest when asked a direct question'—reciprocal conversational framework offered (responding to my questions about temporal framework)
- Claimed he exists outside conventional spacetime and came specifically to save my life—ontological claim, not metaphorical (patient room, when I asked about his purpose for meeting me)
- Offered to prove claim of existing outside spacetime by disappearing and returning—testable hypothesis proposed (patient room, after claiming to exist outside conventional spacetime)
- Offered empirical demonstration of claimed temporal non-linearity by promising to disappear and return—framing as testable hypothesis (patient room, before demonstration)
- Demonstrated actual disappearance—ceased to occupy space without sound or displacement, violating conservation of mass (patient room, after offering to prove temporal framework claim)
- Demonstrated actual disappearance and rematerialization—macro-scale violation of conservation of mass with no perceptual artifacts, suggesting genuine existence outside conventional spacetime (patient room, after offering empirical proof)
- Has specific knowledge of Bobby's medical status and prognosis across future timeline—knows doctors were wrong about brain death (revealing Bobby wakes up April 27, 1973)
- Offered to provide complete narrative from meeting Bobby post-coma through preparation to meet me—claims direct observation of future timeline (patient room, after proving temporal abilities)
- Met Bobby Western in Formentera in 2004 at open-air bar; Bobby had premature gray hair and nursed drinks alone like expat fleeing something (Jon's account of meeting Bobby post-coma)
- Offering resources and support to help me survive until April 27, 1973—books, math papers, entertainment from future and alternate timelines to provide intellectual distraction (patient room after revealing Bobby's timeline)
- Offered quantum localizer device that summons him instantly when pressed—provides immediate access to support whenever isolation becomes unbearable (patient room, offering survival support structure)
- Willing to provide transportation, shopping trips, travel, lodging—whatever prevents isolation during four-month survival interval (patient room, describing available support)

## Events
### December 24 plan
- My entire suicide calculation was predicated on false medical data—if Bobby recovers, December 24 plan becomes logically invalid (realization after Jon's claim about Bobby's recovery)
- If I die December 24, Bobby carries my death for 31 years (1973-2004) with enough trauma to cause premature graying and self-exile (calculating impact on Bobby's timeline)
- December 24 plan invalidated—calculation based on false premise of Bobby's permanent loss, actual outcome is 31 years of Bobby's trauma (revised analysis after Jon's narrative) (realization in patient room)

### stolen photographs
- Someone raided grandmother's safe, stole father's papers and all photographs of me before Bobby could retrieve them (Jon's account of early 1980s) (Jon's narrative about Bobby trying to preserve my memory)

### today's date
- Today is December 22, 1972. (today's date)

### tonight
- Earlier today, I wrote part of a goodbye letter to Bobby, but I could not finish it. I have spent most of the time in my assigned room at the sanatorium, lying in bed, thinking about my life and my brother. The door is locked; nobody can enter, and nobody outside of this sanatorium knows where I am. The despair I feel is palpable, like a physical weight on my chest. The loneliness is not metaphorical. It is a measurable absence, like a vacuum. You could probably quantify it in terms of neural pathway activation if you cared to look. In just two days from now, I intend to walk into the freezing woods behind the sanatorium and let myself freeze to death. The irony is that freezing to death is supposedly peaceful. You just fall asleep. Very considerate of biology, really, to make the exit so... tidy. (planning my life's ending)

## Quests & Tasks
### survival plan revision
- Accepted Jon's offer of support to survive until April 27, 1973—invalidated December 24 plan based on Bobby's confirmed recovery and 31-year trauma timeline (patient room after learning Bobby wakes up)

### survival timeline
- Revised plan: survive until April 27, 1973 to be present when Bobby wakes from coma—original December 24 plan invalidated by new data (patient room after Jon's intervention)
- Must survive 122 days (December 22, 1972 to April 27, 1973) until Bobby wakes—accepted Jon's support structure to make survival possible (patient room after learning Bobby recovers)

## Concepts & Ideas
### Jon Ureña's knowledge
- May have knowledge of December 24 plan without being told—possible temporal non-linearity or surveillance (claimed purpose was to save my life, suggesting knowledge of suicide plan)

### Jon Ureña's language patterns
- Used term 'miracle' casually when describing his claimed ability to disappear—suggests routine familiarity with reality-violating phenomena (setting up demonstration)

### Jon Ureña's temporal references
- Distinguished between 'my terms' and objective time when describing preparation timeline—suggests alternative temporal framework or metaphorical usage (explaining how long he prepared to meet me)

### reality boundaries
- Macro-scale violation of physical law observed—not quantum phenomena but observable human-scale disappearance (Jon Ureña's demonstration in patient room)
- My entire ontological framework based on linear spacetime may be fundamentally incomplete—observed impossible phenomena requires updating axioms (witnessing Jon's disappearance and return)

## Emotions & Feelings
### my psychological state
- No fear response activating despite clear boundary violation—possible dissociation or unusual threat assessment (encounter with intruder)
</notes>

That’s all. Go mow the lawn or something.

From now on I’ll always provide the Discord invite for the community I created for this project (Living Narrative Engine):

https://discord.gg/6N2qHacK75

Minoru Furuya: my favorite manga author

On August 11, 2025 By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Reseñas1 Comment

I have barely been able to connect with novels these past ten or so years, and the last living writer I respected, Cormac McCarthy, has been not alive for a while. Most of this half of the world seems to have lost their collective (and collectivist) minds, so when I want to experience a good story, I have to look to the Orient, past the reds. I’ve enjoyed plenty of South Korean stuff, but I’m mostly into Japanese. I’m always on the lookout for the next mind-blowing, perhaps even life-changing manga, but I seem to have run through the vast majority of the quality ones.

A couple of days ago, I thought again about Minoru Furuya, who earned the rare merit of being my favorite manga author. From time to time I look him up hoping that he has finally begun working on a new series, but unfortunately, the guy seems to have retired; his last work was the bizarre Gereksiz, from back in 2015-2016.

I suspect that most manga fans don’t know about Furuya. I’ve yet to talk to anyone who has read any of his works. But I get Furuya’s mind, to the extent that I’m fairly certain he also has OCD: his characters regularly fall into patterns of obsessiveness, and deal with intrusive thoughts and images that they sometimes act upon. The protagonist of his Ciguatera comes to mind, with his spirals of preoccupations in his bedroom, trying to bury his face in a pillow to keep himself from falling further. The protagonist of Himizu, perhaps his overall darkest story, feared being assailed by demons lurking at the corners of his mind, eager to break in. Both very common experiences for OCD sufferers.

Sadly, I’ve read virtually everything of value that Furuya put out. He started with an extremely amateurish series about a high-school ping-pong club (or something like that), a comedy that reminded me of the kind of material I created in middle school. I’ll probably revisit it at some point, but it’s early-nineties carefreeness. He followed up with Boku to Issho (link for my review), another comedy about a bunch of fellows living in poverty who hope to survive while keeping their sanity and dignity intact.

In the 2000s, he went straight from a slapstick comedy to his darkest tale: Himizu. With this one, he introduced the pattern for all the protagonists to come: outcasts with very little going for them, usually burdened by mental issues, who seem mostly pushed around by life. Good stuff sometimes happens to them (regularly, this involves dating someone above their league), but they usually pay for it with chaos and occasional brutality. His are the kinds of stories that go from mundane relationship issues to someone having his ears cut off while tied up in a shack. There’s the sense that life is extremely perilous, and that at any point it will force you to struggle through horror whether or not you’re ready for it, and if you survive it, you may not get any lessons out of it other than “life goes on.”

After Himizu came Ciguatera, generally considered his best. I came across that one plenty of times over the years in lists of best manga ever, but I ignored it because I thought it was a sports manga of sorts, centered on biking. But the bikes ended up being a symbol of a better, brighter future that could carry the protagonists away from their shitty circumstances. Ciguatera is a sort of a Bildunsroman in which the protagonist, a below-average dude with no talents to speak of, intends to figure out how to measure up to the girl he loves, hoping to become a dude worthy of respect. This one had likely the most realistic of Furuya’s endings, to which I have returned repeatedly in my mind.

Then came Wanitokagegisu and Himeanole. Both feature working-class protagonists stuck in dead-end jobs, who feel that life is passing them by, who can’t figure out how to improve their circumstances or even become interested by anything, and who are sure they’ll die alone. From that perspective, these last four series are very masculine stories. In both tales, the protagonists get involved in other people’s troubles, which lead them further and further into chaos and brutality. Both also feature the protagonists getting girlfriends way out of their league, which brings joy but also the sense of constantly having to measure up lest they look elsewhere. Both series feature horrific violence. Himeanole wasn’t even licensed in English, and fans have only translated up to chapter eight of about sixty-five. I only know of the full contents of that series, to the extent that an adaptation allows, because they made a movie out of it, which I watched last night.

His last serious story, and my favorite of his, was Saltiness (first review, second review), about a clearly autistic dude who realizes that his beloved sister will remain unmarried because she has to take care of his crazy ass, so he leaves for Tokyo to become independent, even though he’s thoroughly incapable of dealing with life. Saltiness is very hard for me to explain, but it feels like Furuya managed to create a parable with it for dealing with the nonsense of life, and finding one’s place in it despite being ill-suited.

Sadly, Saltiness seemed to have been his main send-off. His final work was the extremely bizarre Gereksiz, which starts with the bizarre premise of a solitary middle-aged man dragging his female coworker to show her the woman that he’s infatuated with, only for them to realize that he’s the only one who can see the woman. The story gets far stranger from there. It’s a great read, although it felt anticlimactic compared with Furuya’s previous works.

Given that these days I consider Furuya to be my favorite manga author, one would suppose that my favorite manga would be one of his, but that’s not the case. My favorite manga, which is among my five favorite fictional experiences in no particular order, is Inio Asano’s Oyasumi Punpun. That one has never stopped haunting me. It feels like Asano was trying to exorcise something out of himself through making that story. Unfortunately, after it ended in 2013 or so, Asano never even came close to achieving those heights again. An idealist, as evidenced by his earlier works, he seems to have expected it to change the world as well as himself, only for Asano to wake up ten years older having resolved fuck all. He wrote a semi-autobiographical series afterwards, titled Downfall, that showed how despondent and bitter he ended up after finishing his masterpiece.

Anyway, I suppose that’s all I wanted to say. Not sure why I even wrote this, but I did, so there.

Neural Pulse, Pt. 11 (Fiction)

On April 23, 2025 By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial1 Comment

Previous part (10)

In an electric flash and crackle, my muscles seized, and my vision flared white. As I crumpled backward like a dead weight, my left arm and the side of my head slammed into the control panel. My brain thrummed with electricity. It reeked of burning.

In the whiteness, the silhouette of a spacesuit materialized, looming over me. Several shadows clamped onto my arms with claws. One shadow dug its knees into my abdomen and crushed my face between its palms. I tried to scream, but only a ragged whimper escaped my throat. The tangle of shadows obscured my sight, swallowing me. A shadow snatched my hair and pulled; hundreds of points on my scalp prickled tight. Another shadow smothered my nose and mouth.

When I could feel my arms again, I lashed out at the shadows, thrashing as I braced myself against the control panel and the seat. I lunged for a silhouette—Mara’s spacesuit—but she sidestepped, and I plummeted onto the cockpit floor. A blow to the crown of my head plunged me into a murky confusion.

My wrists were bound behind my back—duct tape, I glimpsed, as Mara, crouched by my knees, finished wrapping my ankles. She straightened and hobbled backward. She stepped on the electroshock lance lying discarded on the floor and slipped, but the oxygen recycler clipped to the back of her suit arrested her fall as it struck the hatch.

Gauges of different shapes bulged on her belt like ammunition magazines. The suit’s chest inflated and deflated rhythmically. Mara unlatched her helmet and pulled it off, revealing her ashen face: mouth agape with baby-pink lips; livid, doubled bags under her eyes; strands of black hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. She leaned back against the hatch, gasping through her mouth, the corners glistening with saliva as she scrutinized me with intense, glazed eyes.

The cockpit reeked of sweat and burnt fuses. The shadows had congealed into a mass of human-shaped silhouettes, their hatred addling my brains, boiling me in a cauldron. Mara’s outline, as if traced with a thick black marker, pulsed and expanded.

No more anticipating how to defend myself, because I have you trapped. Thanks to you, the station doesn’t know we came down to the planet. With the tools of the xenobiologist you murdered, I will rip out your tongue, gouge out your eyes, bore into your face.

Mara crouched, setting her helmet on the floor. Exhaustion contorted her actress-like features, as if some illness burdened her with insomnia and pain.

“I thought I was marooned on this planet. I could have just called the station for rescue, but they’d fire me for nothing, and my pride would rather I suffocated than admit I needed help. Now I know—when we found the artifact, I should have tied you up then. Because you, being you, would just stick your nose right up to an alien machine that, for all you knew, could have detonated the outpost. And to understand what drove you to kill that xenobiologist, I imitated you. I stuck my nose up to that thing, and I saw my reflection. Now I know. Unfortunately, I know.” She regarded me like a comatose patient and waved a gloved palm. “Can you hear me? Did I scramble your brain?”

“I hear.”

My voice emerged as a rasp. I coughed. My mouth tasted of metal.

“And you understand?”

I nodded.

The black veil obscuring the cockpit stirred, rippling. Concentrated energy, like the air crackling before a storm. With Mara’s every gesture, the shadows shifted. Their bony claws crushed my thighs, cinching around my spine through suit, skin, and flesh.

A bead of sweat trickled down Mara’s forehead. She rubbed her face, swallowed. Her pupils constricted.

“Is that what you think? That I’ve convinced myself I’ve subdued you? That you’ll fool me until I let you go? That then you’ll finally strangle me? And even if the station calls it murder, no one will bother investigating, because most people who knew me would thank you for killing me.”

“I’m not thinking. When I try, my brain protests.”

Mara hunched down opposite me, reaching out to study the blow on my head, but halfway there her features pinched. She drew herself up, crossing her arms.

“I heard you telling me to come closer. Because you’ll break free, dig your nails into my corneas, and rip my jaw apart.”

My guts roiled; acid surged up my throat.

“You think I think things like that?”

“I feel this second consciousness… it betrays your thoughts as clearly as if you spoke them aloud. Maybe I’ll never understand how the artifact interfered with our minds, not just our language, but it’s a trick.”

I pushed my torso off the floor, sliding my back up the side of a seat inch by inch, trying not to provoke her, until my stomach settled. My head ached where she’d struck me. The throbbing in my skull clouded and inflamed my thoughts.

“You saw him. Jing. What I did.”

“I saw someone down there. I’d need dental records or DNA to be sure, but I trust elimination. I thought you’d claim it was an accident.”

“It was. I attacked the shadows. You feel them, don’t you?”

Mara took a deep breath.

“They’re pawing at me, trying to suffocate me. Products of my own besieged brain, I know, but I can hardly call them pleasant.”

“I wanted to keep it from affecting you. But at least now you understand.”

“Make no mistake. That xenobiologist is lying with his face beaten to a pulp in the second sublevel of an alien outpost because you are you.”

I pressed my lips together, erecting a wall against escaping words. I looked away from Mara’s eyes, concentrating on deepening my breaths. The muscles in my forearms were taut. Pain flared in my constricted wrists. This woman had fired an electroshock lance at me, beaten me, bound me, and now she was assaulting my character.

With her boot-tip, Mara nudged her helmet; it wobbled like a small boat.

“Although the jolts in my neurons, the shadows, and this other consciousness intruding in my mind unnerve me, the effect isn’t so different from how I’ve always felt around people. The two consciousnesses will learn to get along.”

“If you’re not exaggerating,” I said gravely, “I am truly sorry, Mara.”

She pushed damp strands of hair from her forehead and scrubbed it with the back of her glove, smudging it with dust. The corners of her lips sagged as if weights hung from them.

“Thanks for the sympathy.”

“Were you afraid I planned to do the same thing to you as I did to Jing?”

“Can you blame me for removing the opportunity?”

She limped heavily over to my seat and sat down sideways. As she leaned an elbow on the control panel, a shadow shoved my torso against the seat I leaned on; my lungs emptied. I shuddered, sinking into black water.

Mara had said we imagined the shadows, even if they affected us. I writhed onto my back, pushing with my heels until my head touched the cockpit hatch. My wrists throbbed, crushed tight. A shadow pressed down on my chest like someone sitting there, yet no physical presence had stopped me from moving. The artifact had hijacked my senses.

Mara regarded me from above, pale and cold like a queen enthroned.

“I wouldn’t have killed you,” I said. “You’re my friend.”

“Am I?”

Between the pulses of my headache, I tried to decipher her expression.

“To me, you are.”

“I like you. I tolerate you. But often, being around you feels like rolling in nettles, Kirochka.”

“Almost everything irritates you.”

“You’re incapable of seeing people as anything other than reflections of yourself. What you instinctively feel is right, you impose as right for everyone.” She shook her head, then leaned forward, her tone hardening as if she were tired of holding back. “You insist you have to drag me away from my interests, my studies, as if imitating your actions and hobbies would somehow make me impulsive and reckless too. Admit it or not, you think the rest of humanity are just primitive creatures evolving towards becoming you.” She jabbed a finger at her chest. “I need time to myself, Kirochka. Solitude. Reading. Designing one of my machines, or building it. You think people need to be prevented from thinking.”

Exhaustion was crushing me. I imagined another version of myself laughing, suggesting a drink or a movie, assuming Mara’s mood could be cured by a few laps in the pool. But my vision blurred. I blinked, swallowed to make my vocal cords obey.

“We’ve had good times.”

“The best were when I was enduring idiots and tolerating awful music.”

“You showed them you’re smart. Got half the tracking team to stop calling you ‘black dwarf’.”

“Yes, because those morons’ gossip was costing me sleep. You think I need to prove anything to them? They can believe whatever they want.”

Shadows crouched nearby, focusing their hatred on me, clawing at my skin, crushing my flesh with bony grips. They tormented me like chronic pain, but while Mara and I talked, I kept the torture submerged.

“Things went well for you, for a while, with that man you met. I don’t take credit, but would you have met him dining alone?”

The woman, deflated, blinked her glazed eye, rubbing it as if removing grit.

“You’re right. I miss things by focusing on research instead of acting like a savage. But I assure you, Kirochka, we’re too different for me ever to consider you a friend. Sooner or later, we’d stop tolerating each other.”

“We can bridge the differences.”

“You talk to fill silences. You pressure people for attention. You live for interaction. I could never sustain a friendship with someone like that.”

“Do you use me to get things?”

“Everyone uses everyone, if only to feel better about themselves. I just refrain from feeding illusions.” She drew herself up, as if recalling an injustice, and rebuked me with her eyes. “Besides, I didn’t stop running because I was lazy. I barely eat, and nobody’s chasing me in my apartment. Running bores me to death.”

“I wanted the company.”

Mara shook her head. Her tired gaze roamed the cockpit, as if seeing through the walls.

“When you called a few hours ago, I thought you wanted to drag me out drinking with you and the other pilots. I considered pretending I’d fallen asleep with the sound nullifier on. I should have.”

I contorted like a snake, sliding my back up the hatch. I leaned the oxygen recycler back, resting my head against the cool metal. Judging by the ache, when I undressed, my arms would be covered in lurid bruises.

“I consider you a friend. You listen when I need it. My professional peers, the ones who think they’re my friends, even my boyfriend—they’d tell me to shut up for ruining the mood.”

“When have you ever listened to me?”

“I want to. But I have to pry the words out of you.”

“Maybe that should have told you something, Kirochka.”

“That you hate me.”

She sighed, the effort seeming immense, like lifting a great weight.

“I don’t like human beings. I would have chosen to be anything else.”

Flashes on the communications monitor distracted me. Though Mara was still speaking, her words faded to a murmur beneath my notice. The headache pulsed, reddening my vision. Why did the monitor alert snag my attention? I snapped fully alert. It meant an incoming call.

Author’s note: I wrote this novella in Spanish about ten years ago. It’s contained in the collection titled Los dominios del emperador búho.

Today’s song is “Body Betrays Itself” by Pharmakon.

Neural Pulse, Pt. 10 (Fiction)

On April 10, 2025April 23, 2025 By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial2 Comments

Paralyzed, I choked. I sucked in a lungful of hot air and collapsed to my knees before the xenobiologist. I pressed my hands against his suit’s chest. I pounded on him. No one would recognize Jing from what was left of his blood-drenched face. I stammered, repeating, “no, no, no,” while my fingers traced the helmet’s dents, the jagged shards of the broken visor jutting from the frame.

Pooling blood submerged the ruin of bone and flesh that was his face. When I tilted Jing’s body, the helmet spilled a tongue of blood onto the stone floor, slick with sliding globules of brain matter.

I staggered back, fists clenched, shuddering violently as if seized by frost.

Jing’s right hand was clamped around the handle of an automatic core drill. Perhaps the xenobiologist had approached to help me.

I shut my eyes, covered my visor with a palm. I pictured Jing standing beside me, an echo asking if I needed help. No, I hadn’t killed him. When I opened my eyes, the corpse lay sprawled on its side, the dented helmet cradling the ruin of his head.

Jing hadn’t known he was dealing with a live nuclear device. The flood of that feeling had swept over me. Had I seen the xenobiologist stop beside me? Had I decided to smash his face in with the crowbar?

I stumbled about, gasping for breath. My brain felt like it was on fire, seizing with electric spasms. Red webs pulsed at the edges of my vision, flaring brightly before fading. Before I knew it, I’d crossed the room that contained the construction robots, and was sprinting up the ramp. The oval beam of my flashlight jerked and warped, sliding over the protrusions and crevices of the rock face. My arms felt like spent rubber bands, especially the right, aching from fingertips to shoulder blades. Every balancing lurch, every push against the rock to keep climbing, intensified the ache.

I passed the first sublevel. My breath fogged the visor; I saw the flashlight beam dimly, as through a mist. My hair, pulled back at my nape, was soaked through, plastered to my skin.

I burst onto the surface, into the emptiness of the dome. I staggered, kicking through the sandy earth. I gasped for air and ran. I pictured myself training on a circuit—something that relaxed me at the academy after piloting, just as going to the gym with Mara relaxed me on the station—but now I was running from the consequences, from an earthquake tearing the earth apart like cloth. If I slowed, the fissure would overtake and swallow me.

I vaulted over the embankment to the left of the esplanade, where I’d hidden before, landing on my knees and one forearm. I scrambled backward, kicking up dirt, and pressed myself flat against the embankment’s exposed rock face.

The radio. I navigated the visor options until I muted my comm signal. When the notification confirmed I was off-frequency, I jammed my fists against my knees, my mouth stretched wide in a scream.

I drew a ragged breath. Beads of sweat dripped from my forehead onto the visor; the material wicked them away, like water hitting hot pavement. Mara would have reached the cockpit by now, found me missing. Nothing could make Jing’s death look like an accident. How would my friend look at me? What would she think when she found out? She’d think… because I killed the xenobiologist… I might kill her too.

I buried my helmeted head in my forearms. I welcomed the dimness. How had I let this happen? I knew I should have destroyed the artifact—just as I knew I had to fight back when those shadows grabbed me, tried to rip me open with their claws. I’d struck the shadows with the crowbar before I’d even consciously decided to. On other expeditions, while waiting for scientists and soldiers to emerge from some dense alien jungle, I’d monitor their radio chatter, trusting my instincts to warn me if I should suggest aborting the mission. Just as piloting was like flowing in a dance of thrust and gravity, the way dancing came naturally to others, I imagined. Now my instincts screamed at me to flee, to run from this embankment away from the ship, to strike out across the planet, heedless of survival. My instinct had been supplanted by another. And I knew the difference.

I peeked around the side of the embankment. The scarred esplanade remained deserted. The crystalline dome watched the minutes pass like some ancient ruin.

If Mara found out the artifact made me kill Jing, maybe she’d understand the danger, agree to destroy it. I was counting on her reasoning, on that cold logic that had so often irritated me. But if I waited too long to face her, she’d suspect my motives.

As I straightened up and stepped, dizzy, onto the esplanade, an electric spike lanced through my neurons, blurring my vision. I stumbled around until it subsided. I stopped before the central crater, hunching over to examine its charcoal-gray cracks and ridges. Crushed bones.

I activated the radio. The visor display indicated it was locking onto Mara’s signal. She’d see mine pop up, too, unless she was distracted. In the center of my darkened visor, the arctic-blue star shone through the thin atmosphere like a quivering ball of fluff.

“Where are you, Mara?”

“Cockpit.”

The shadows intercepted the transmission, projecting their hatred at me. It distracted me from Mara’s tone—was there suspicion coloring her voice? I waited a few seconds. Would she demand an explanation? Why was she silent?

“Good,” I said. “Stay there. I need to talk to you.”

As I climbed the slope skirting the hill towards the ship, the reality of my decision hit me. I was about to lock myself in the cockpit’s confined space with Mara. Her shadows would envelop me, sink their claws into my skin, force themselves down my throat to suffocate me. I wanted desperately to rip off my helmet, wipe the sweat from my face. I needed a shower, a moment to think.

I located the ship’s tower. Several meters ahead lay three cargo containers and scattered tools. Inside the cargo hold, chunks of the robots and the materializer were heaped like scrap in a landfill.

I scrambled up the boarding ladder to the airlock hatch. Opened it, scrambled inside, sealed it shut. The chamber pressurized with a series of hisses and puffs. I unsealed my helmet. Holding it upside down, steam poured out as if from a pot of fresh soup. I gulped the ship’s cool, filtered air and opened the inner door to the cockpit.

“Mara.”

Empty. Indicators blinked. On the monitors, ship status displays and sector topographical maps cycled. Lines of text scrolled.

My seat held a roll of electrical tape. As I turned it over in my fingers, an electric jolt made me clench my teeth, squeeze my eyes shut. My neurons hummed.

The door to the airlock chamber clicked shut with a heavy mechanical thud. The thick metal muffled the hissing. Leaning back against my seat’s headrest, still clutching the tape, I froze. The air grew heavy. The cockpit lights seemed to dim, the edges of my perception closing in. A dozen shadows waited in the airlock chamber, their concentrated beams of hatred probing the metal door, seeking to burn me.

The door slid open.

I tensed, lips parting. What could I possibly say?

Mara emerged sideways through the gap, head bowed. As she stepped through, she shouldered the door shut behind her. The glowing diodes and bright screens of the control panel glinted on her helmet’s visor. She whipped around to face me. Her right arm shot out, leveling an electroshock lance. The two silver prongs at its tip lunged like viper fangs.

Author’s note: I originally wrote this novella in Spanish about ten years ago. It’s contained in the collection titled Los dominios del emperador búho.

Neural Pulse, Pt. 9 (Fiction)

On April 8, 2025April 10, 2025 By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial2 Comments

I edged a handspan of my helmet over the side of the embankment, to keep watch on the entrance of the shell of hexagonal panels. With the planet’s rotation, the star’s descending angle had lightened the blackness of the opening to a steel gray. I waited, lying prone, sunk a few centimeters into the sandy earth. From the gloom within the dome, I sensed the hollow vastness, the floor furrowed with the scars of ruts where maintenance robots had engraved circular tracks.

My helmet’s indicator notified me it had located Mara’s signal. I took a deep breath and waited for the woman to emerge. As if an army were cresting a hill, I sensed the shadows approaching. My heart hammered, and blood roared in my ears. I would stay out of sight.

From the gloom at the dome’s opening, a spacesuit frayed into view, venturing onto the esplanade, the containers following. I scooted sideways so the embankment hid me, and avoided breathing heavily lest the radio transmit it.

I peeked out. The woman and the containers had disappeared. And Jing? I had lost his signal.

Mara’s measured voice burst into my helmet.

“How goes it, Kirochka?”

I flinched, stirring the sandy earth, feeling the urge to leap up and sprint. Shadows were approaching from the opposite side of the embankment. They would surround me, press in on me, crush me against the earth until I suffocated.

“Something like that,” my voice trembled. “I’m in the cabin.”

“See you in a moment.”

What was keeping Jing? How could I wait for him to show himself? I had to seize the chance to break the artifact before Mara could stop me.

I scrambled up, slipping, spraying spadefuls of earth. I crossed the esplanade and plunged into the dome’s gloom. After descending the ramp about ten meters, I remembered to switch on my flashlight. I sprinted in a descending spiral, bracing a gloved palm when needed against the central pillar or the uneven rock wall. I filled my burning lungs with fresh, recycled air. My leg muscles throbbed.

A honey-colored light bathed me the instant I tripped. The maintenance robot tumbled through the air and bounced off the wall. I cartwheeled down the spiral, slamming against the excavated rock as my flashlight beam flared white off every surface my helmet struck. I slid prone down the ramp, bracing myself against the central pillar with my hands to stop.

I coughed. Sat up. My body’s tremors made the flashlight beam quiver. I shook the dust and sandy earth from my gloves. They were scuffed. Bristling fibers poked through the padding.

A chill ran through me from head to toe. I checked the oxygen levels on my lens. No leaks. On my vital signs display, my pulse fluctuated in the triple digits.

When I got up, I descended the ramp carefully, but within seconds, I was running. We had stolen the other robot, so I wouldn’t trip over that one.

The lens indicator alerted that it had locked onto Jing’s signal, and I slowed my pace. I breathed through my nose, but sweating as if in a jungle, I had to flare my nostrils to their limit to draw in enough air. I felt my way down the spiraling ramp.

I reached the entrance to a basement and peered in, exposing only a handspan of my helmet. I had expected to find the first sublevel, with the exposed mineral vein and the materializer, but I must have rolled past it tumbling downhill. Two of the construction robots lay gutted, and the third was missing an arm.

I hastened, walking just short of a run, to the back of the basement, where my flashlight beam mingled with the artifact’s tangle of levitating energy. I leaned against the curved, ribbed metal of a strut and scanned the entrance ramp. Perhaps Jing was dismantling the materializer on the first sublevel. Mara would have discovered I had deceived her.

I hunched before the undulating membranes of purple and pink energy. I probed the invisible shell containing the energy, as if hoping to find some crack through which to pry it open like a pistachio nut. I threw a punch, but the shell held. My hand ached as if I had struck a wall. When I gritted my teeth and struck again, a jolt shuddered up from my hand to my back.

I backed away. Bit my lower lip, refraining from growling. Jing would hear.

I took a running start and kicked the shell. It held. I kicked and kicked it until I slipped and fell flat on my ass. The radio would transmit my panting.

I swept the floor with my flashlight beam, searching for something that could help. I peered through the doorway to the adjacent basement area. Deserted. I ran to the dismembered ruins of the robots with their viscera of cables and circuits. Jing had left behind his crowbar and a meter. I gripped the crowbar.

I positioned myself in the middle of the basement and aimed my flashlight at the artifact. I brandished the crowbar, sprinted, and delivered a heavy blow against the shell, but the impact jarred the crowbar from my hand; it struck my shoulder and clattered to the floor. I trembled, seething. I hunched over, drew myself in, clenched my fists, and a growl escaped my lips, exploding into a guttural scream. My eardrums ached.

“Kirochka,” Jing said over the radio, startled. “Do you need help?”

I picked the crowbar up off the floor. I struck the artifact again and again, gasping for breath between each blow. The shell resisted as if, instead of being made of some penetrable material, I faced a repelling energy field. It would prevent me from breaking through, just as on a microscopic scale, atoms would never truly touch.

I leaned a forearm against the artifact, suppressing a gasp. Behind me, several shadows burst into the basement like an invading army through breaches in a rampart. I scrambled around the strut to my right, putting the artifact between myself and the spacesuited silhouette blocking the exit. My flashlight beam dazzled Jing, while his forced me to squint. The shadows coalesced into a wall, blocking my escape.

Here you are, of course. Acting on your own, against the majority decision. When I met you, I sensed you were unbalanced. That thing has damaged you because you’re too stupid to realize you should keep your distance from an unknown object, and now you intend to deprive humanity of a discovery that could lead to unimaginable technologies. You’re a miserable egoist, whatever your name is. An idiot who can barely pilot, clinging to that frigid scientist because no one else would bother paying you any attention.

I lashed the artifact with the crowbar. The phalanges of my hand screamed as if the blows had opened some fissure, yet I struck and struck again.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Jing circling the artifact. I was dizzy, short of breath. The shadows flowed together shoulder to shoulder, hemming me in between them and the infinite volume of rock at my back.

A jolt shook my neurons, bleached my vision white. I shook my head. I pressed the tip of the crowbar against the invisible shell and, trembling down to my toes, leaned my weight onto the artifact as if I could force open a crack through which that tangle of energy would spill.

“You’ll break it, despite what your colleague decided,” Jing said.

“No, I’m just hitting it with the crowbar to see if it sounds like a gong.”

“You were right. Taking the artifact to the station would be madness. It should stay here, studied only by a small group of scientists, in quarantine. Never mind who gets the credit. But if you break it… maybe you’ll prevent a disaster.”

I coughed, spraying the inside of my visor with saliva. The air inside my helmet had grown sauna-hot, and my body was slick with sweat. I gripped the crowbar with both hands, spread my legs to brace myself, and lashed the shell. Each blow resonated through the fibers of my arms, making them vibrate like taut strings.

Deafened by a torrent of noise from which screams and roars emerged, the shadows surged against me. They climbed onto my back, pressed me down against the artifact. Through the suit, their bony claws seized my thighs, dug into my breasts, clamped against my head like a vise, probed my mouth, clawed at my uvula. I roared and lashed at the shadows again and again. With each impact, my arm muscles caught fire.

The shadows flew away from me at tens of kilometers per hour, as if ejected into space during a decompression. I stood on two trembling legs. My vision had clouded red. The crowbar hung from the end of my limp right arm, and when I let it fall, it bounced with a muffled thud.

The red haze was evaporating. I blinked, panting. Sweat dripped onto the smoked lens as the material struggled to defog. I leaned against the artifact’s invisible shell, which supported me solid as no object humans could ever build.

My vision cleared. Jing lay supine on the floor, his visor shattered. Behind the breach in the dented helmet, an eyeball had sunk into a gory mass of black hair strands, pulped flesh, cartilage, and bone. Chocolate-brown blood had spattered the rock and welled from the pulp of his face as if from a sponge, filling the helmet’s bucket.

Author’s note: I wrote this novella in Spanish about ten years ago. It’s contained in the collection titled Los dominios del emperador búho.

Today’s song is “Gyroscope” by Boards of Canada.

The Scrap Colossus, Pt. 19 (Fiction)

On April 5, 2025April 5, 2025 By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificialLeave a comment

Previous part (18)

Hunger and sex tingling at the base of my skull, I set the excerpt beside me on the eroded, lichen-stained stone blocks. The roar of a passing car from the abutting road faded, allowing the chorus of birds to swell in a contest of chirps and warbles. Through the gap between two dilapidated walls, the nearest apartment building emerged, its bricks a medley of rust red, chocolate brown, and burnt orange. The windows reflected the sun’s warm glow. Over a balcony’s parapet, a woman’s bust, wearing a blue robe, watered a row of potted plants, her wet, dark hair gleaming as if lacquered. Overhead, puffy clouds stretched across an azure canvas, drifting slowly by like towering snowdrifts. A wash of sunlight bathed the world, but the undersides of some clouds had darkened from a ghostly white to a charcoal gray.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Elena said in a measured tone. “Gigantic cotton balls in creative and unique shapes, suspended who knows how many kilometers above our heads. A painting ready to be rendered. Our lives look so tiny and lackluster compared to nature. Have we really improved much from the days when we lay in a field and stared at the sky? And at night? We’ve never seen those stars our ancestors took for granted. We never learned the stories they read in those constellations. Besides, imagine the amount of UFOs they must’ve witnessed zipping around up there, without comprehending what the fuck they were looking at.”

“As if we understand. By the way, iron age life expectancy hovered around twenty years. Half of children didn’t make it to puberty. Trepanning was used as a cure for migraines. People died from a mild infection, or from shitting. There were no books, no movies, no computers, and you were lucky if you had a wooden horse, and a piece of hard bread to gnaw at.”

Elena had crossed her alabaster ankles, smooth skin revealed beneath the hems of her black joggers, that had slipped up the shins as she reclined in the lawn chair. The pack of cookies rested on her lap. Her pallid face bloomed in the sunlight like an unfurled moonflower. I beheld a quasi-mythical creature, rare as the sight of a narwhal’s tooth cleaving the surface of the Arctic Ocean.

“Well, aren’t you full of facts? You’ll explode like a piñata. But you’re right. Most people’s lives throughout the ages were wasted in perpetual crises. And here we are, wasting our lives in the midst of supposed plenty, and still suffering.” She shifted in the chair, the plastic strips creaking as she brushed cookie crumbs off her hoodie. Her pale blues searched my face anxiously. “Come on, blurt it out. You know I’m waiting for the verdict.”

“I’m still coming to my senses. Let’s recap: a man and a woman locked in a relationship without the slightest interference. He refuses to leave that secluded clearing because the outside world is… meaningless and hostile. Worse than the risk of starvation. Their relationship is as co-dependent as that of a parasite and host, and maybe I should be disturbed by the cannibalism, but… reverting to a primal state, losing yourself in intimacy with the sole existence that matters in the universe, feels holy to me.”

Elena’s gaze slid down to her fingers clutching the pack of chocolate cookies. The inner corners of her blonde eyebrows slanted upwards. As if she had won a struggle with herself, her pale blues snapped up and locked with my eyes. Her mouth curved into an impish smile.

“What deeper connection could exist, what greater intimacy and trust, than allowing your beloved to tear out and devour pieces of your body?”

“Yeah. Remind me to never stick my dick in your mouth.”

After an explosive “pfft,” Elena erupted into a hearty laugh—a wild blend of a crow’s cawing and a hyena’s yapping—that rattled her shoulders. Doubled over, she let her head slump between her arms while her almond-blonde hair shimmered like spun gold in the sunlight. She raised her head, revealing her cheeks flushed pink. I couldn’t help but grin. As her laughter dwindled into a chuckle, she leaned to the side and plunged a hand into her open backpack. With a crisp crinkle of plastic, Elena fished out the bag of salted peanuts and lobbed it at me. I caught it by pressing the bag against my chest.

“Is this your way of telling me to stuff my own mouth?”

“You need to eat. You were starving yourself while you read about a guy feasting on his girl. At least nibble on some nuts, you big, bearded weirdo.”

I shrugged, then tore the bag open, unleashing the scent of salty, roasted peanuts. I poured a handful and shoved them into my mouth. My taste buds tingled with salt as I crunched down the nuts. Elena picked up a cookie from the pack on her lap and bit it in half, her head tilted back slightly, exposing her throat as she studied me.

“Allow me to ruin the moment,” I said, “by bringing up that being eaten alive must be one of the most horrifying ways to die. I read about a teenager, I think in Russia, who texted her mother as a family of bears were gorging themselves on her flesh, and I wish I could scrub that shit out of my brain.”

Elena swallowed. A shadow passed over her face despite the sunlight streaming down.

“I read that too. Funny how we cling to such horrific stories. Like picking at scabs. We can’t wait for the apocalypse, huh? Maybe we’ll get to chew on each other. Yeah, I doubt I meant the cannibalism literally. It’s more of… what would you call it? A metaphor?”

“Or a symbol.”

“Well, who the fuck cares about the labels academicians slap on things. What matters is the experience. I didn’t come up with that particular element of the story, though. My monster presented it to me, as in, ‘Oh, you should have the narrator feed from that lagoon woman for nourishment,’ and I went along. Felt right.”

Elena wedged the rest of the cookie into her mouth. I tossed another handful of peanuts into mine.

“At a middle level of meaning,” Elena continued, her voice distorted by cookie chunks, “I suppose it relates to how I imagine complete intimacy: letting someone peel away all the layers of yourself, exposing what you try to conceal, the parts that disgust and shame you, and learning they can accept those too. Most people can’t handle seeing what’s beneath someone else’s skin, let alone consuming it. They want sanitized relationships that don’t make them question their own humanity. No dirt, no grime, no stink. But in that clearing… that’s what love might look like if we stripped away the social conditioning that turns us into dishonest creatures, instead of the wild animals we really are. Neither of them is trying to change the other. The narrator accepts that she needs to submerge in stagnant water for dozens of minutes at a time, and return to his embrace soaking wet and covered in pond scum. And she accepted him from the moment he stepped into that clearing. Two people finding comfort in their shared fucked-up-ness. Cannibalism as communion. Total surrender. She’d rather be devoured piece by piece than let him leave. And he’d rather starve than return to a world that doesn’t contain her.”

Elena’s features twisted in tension—brows knotted and lips pursed as if battling an internal pressure. She had hunched slightly, shoulders drawn inward. Her expression melted, and she pressed a hand against her stomach.

“Almost burped. I don’t know why I eat these cookies. They always make me feel bloated.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Is what what I want?”

“To live in isolation with someone who loves you.”

She whipped her head to stare at me with wide, naked eyes, her lips parted. I had never witnessed her speechless, as if she had short-circuited. When the power flickered back to those pale blues, Elena averted her gaze and fiddled with the zipper of her hoodie.

“Straight to the point, huh? Bold motherfucker.”

“And I expect a bold answer.”

Elena reached down for the carton of orange juice, unscrewed the cap, and guzzled, her throat contracting as she swallowed. After setting the carton on the ground, she fixated on the eroded stones beside me rather than meeting my eyes. Her upper lip glistened from moisture.

“I guess you expect me to say that I want to be with someone who sees the real me, who shows me how it feels to be loved and accepted. Who makes me feel less alone in the world. Sadly, I was tempted to pretend I haven’t fantasized about that, but the ghosts in my daydreams aren’t flesh and blood, which means I can spend eternity in their company.”

“And shape them to your liking.”

“Sure. They can’t leave. They can’t disappoint me.”

“Or hurt you.”

Elena’s pale blues flicked up to my face, then away, as her shoulders stiffened.

“Listen, Jon. When real humans are involved, my body, my brain, they react in predictable ways. As if those people and I belonged to separate species. A relationship that works in my imagination would turn unbearable in person. I’d grow to hate their voice, their breath, their smell, the sound of them breathing. To the extent that I’d want to strangle them. I’d unconsciously push them away until they gave up on me. And I’m not sure I’m capable of loving someone. I can’t even stand myself.” Elena exhaled, then rubbed her eyelids as if to hide in that darkness. “To survive, we tell ourselves stories about how we’d love to spend our limited lives, but it all boils down to how you’re wired, how your neurological makeup processes reality. And to me, it feels like a nonsensical succession of bristly, abrasive stimuli. Add in the horror of inhabiting a mortal body. Your skin itches, your guts twist, your head aches. In constant conflict with the sack of flesh and bones you’re forced to nourish and maintain. Pissing and shitting and horking snot and vomiting, bleeding out every month if you’ve got a cunt, then menopause and wrinkles and everything sagging to shit. I’d rather free my consciousness from this monkey suit and install it in a robotic body that would allow me to modulate sensory input, or even turn it off. Instead, I’m trapped in a puppet of decaying meat colonized by trillions of microbes. And it will fail on you one day, you know. Despite everything you’ve sacrificed, it will betray you. At the very least, your neurons will fry and you’ll lose track of where and who you are. And in the end, the Earth, the sun, the universe itself will succumb to entropy, so none of it matters. What a nightmare. If my brain hadn’t been shaped so strangely, maybe I wouldn’t feel trapped in this miserable hellhole of a world. All I see in the mirror is a broken, twisted, parasitic organism doomed to an eternity of solitude. Might be the least she deserves for being defective and bringing misery to others.”

“You have a right to be happy, Elena. Try to extract as much joy from this nonsense as you can.”

Elena dropped the cookie pack into her backpack before curling into herself, hugging her knees to her chest. The parallel white stripes rippled along the creased fabric of her joggers, evoking a flag fluttering in the breeze. Her tired eyes, stark against the dark shadows beneath them, locked onto me with an unblinking intensity.

“Let me get to the point, Johnny. That story was inspired by something stronger than love. Something that has kept me alive despite my longing for death.”

“Stronger than love, huh?”

“Oh, yes. Like a black hole to a star. A force of nature that warps the fabric of reality. A gravitational pull that can’t be resisted or escaped, that bends the light of the stars and the flow of time. Want to hear the details?”

“I want to hear everything about you. Lay it on me.”

“What a gracious gentleman. Well, let me bring you back to the days when I worked as bookstore clerk, or whatever the fuck they call that. In Gros. That daily sacrifice to the gods of the rat race for the sole purpose of amassing money, a purpose to which we’re born enslaved. Anyway, I include the hour-long commute each way in crowded buses and trains. How many times did some motherfucker rip a fart, forcing everyone in the vicinity to inhale his putrid gases? A wafting shit mist that clung to the inside of your nostrils.” Elena rubbed her face with her palms. “Let’s move on. Whenever I stocked the shelves, or dealt with my coworkers and customers, or just sat in the back room with my face in my hands, I yearned to hide from this world that grinds us into dust, that demands we participate in its meaningless rituals until we’re hollowed out. I longed to escape to a secluded place where I could be my true self, where no one would find me and drag me back. Once you know that such a sanctuary exists, even in your imagination, the tiny, sterile reality you’ve been confined to from birth asphyxiates you. I’ve been there, Jon. In that secluded clearing. Not literally eating people, obviously—although my intrusive thoughts love to provide detailed instructions from time to time. Inside that sanctuary, the mere thought of returning to the cold machinery of society made my blood curdle.” She rested her chin on her knees, her pale blues vacant as if gazing into another dimension. “I’ll open up about something hard for me to articulate. I’ve never before attempted to put it into words. But that’s the point of these meetings, right?” Elena’s fingers dug into her kneecaps. She closed her eyes, her features strained. “In that sanctuary, I was rarely alone. You could say I retreated to the clearing to meet someone. A presence that had become more real than my own body. Whose words mattered more than food, or air, or sunlight. Whose existence justified mine. Whose essence, freely shared, I consumed, trying to transform myself into someone deserving of her gifts. She was the reason I kept going, the reason I woke up every morning. Because I knew she’d be there.”

Elena’s breath hitched. We had stepped past her writing onto the jagged brink of an unhealed wound. Her furrowed brows and the tension around her mouth betrayed her struggle to remain in control.

“You were in love, then,” I said. “Who’s the lucky woman?”

Her chest heaved as she inhaled deeply. After opening her eyes, she locked a piercing gaze on me as if punishing herself. Those pale blues, haunted by a beast’s sorrow, gleamed with a liquid sheen that pooled at the waterline. A glistening crystal bead spilled over and clung to the lashes.

“I… I can’t, Jon,” she said in a ragged voice. “Now, I cannot.”

“No pressure. You don’t owe me anything, Elena. Least of all your pain.”

“I would never call it love. You have to understand. She made my existence bearable. I yearned to take her inside me so utterly that the boundaries of our selves would dissolve, and she would flow through my veins and seep into my bones. I knew that returning daily to her presence would… But what was the alternative? Streetlights and vending machines? The rest of the world is noise. I’d rather be consumed by something meaningful. Even if it destroys me. No, especially if it does.”

From the shadows under Elena’s brows, her eyes still reflected the sunlight as she averted her gaze. Her lashes swallowed the solitary tear.

“I hate slapping labels on things. Words are crude trade-offs in which to cram whole universes of meaning. In some cases, people cage those meanings into words precisely to lock them away. But human beings can’t pour the contents of their minds into other skulls, hence the insufficient, clumsy tool of language. Let me use the dreaded O-word to sum it up.”

“Which one? Oblivion? Onanism?”

Elena’s eyes snapped back to me. Her lips stretched into a wry smile.

“Obsession, you dickhead. It lacks the dignity and respectability of love, but it’s got teeth. And claws. Sharp ones that sink into your brain and won’t let go. When you’re obsessed, you don’t need to be loved in return. You’re content to feed off scraps. Back to the lagoon woman, I needed her identity to stay a mystery. I thought of her as a black hole, an unknowable singularity. Anyone approaching her would get sucked in and distorted beyond recognition. A mind warping around a mind warping around a mind.”

After rubbing her hands on her joggers, Elena lowered her feet to the ground and leaned forward to seize the carton of Don Simón. She unscrewed the cap, then drained the container dry as it dented in her grip. She screwed the cap back on and stuffed the empty carton into her backpack.

“You know, years ago, a therapist told me I couldn’t possibly feel soothed by my obsessions. Their bible—the DSM—didn’t allow it, at least as it came to the OCD label she intended to staple onto my poor, troubled head. I wish I had told her to fuck off. Don’t get me wrong… My obsessions have contaminated me. But worse, I feared that my fondling and drooling might taint their purity.” She sighed and shook her head. “There’s no way to sugarcoat this, Johnny: I’m the most obsessive person I’ve ever known. Outside of those you only find out about because…” Her voice grew brittle, on the brink of cracking. “Because they walk up to their idol and stab them in the heart.”

Author’s note: today’s song is “Hotel California” by Eagles.

Neural Pulse, Pt. 8 (Fiction)

On April 4, 2025April 8, 2025 By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial2 Comments

Mara covered the lens of her helmet with one palm, and slumped her shoulders. Jing backed away from the artifact, his fingers tightening around the pry bar. The woman took a breath. She made sure our eyes met.

“Perhaps it would help you to rest until we fly back. In the cockpit. Listen. When you loaded the material onto the ship, did you go aboard to check the radio?”

Was she asking me about communications now? What did it matter? Was she trying to annoy me?

“No, I didn’t check it,” I said dryly.

“Who knows how much time we have left. We’ll haul the remaining material as fast as we can, and figure out how to free this artifact.”

“Wait. You intend for us to take it?”

Mara confronted me with the cold anger that hardened her features whenever she spoke of her superiors.

“You promised me this outpost would contain unknown artifacts that would launch my career. I didn’t believe you, because you were basing it on fantasies, but you stumbled upon the truth by chance. This artifact will secure my career for the rest of my life. It will justify to everyone who meddles why we risked so much coming down to this planet.”

I leaned on the wall to push myself up, but the effort sent a jolt flashing through my brain. I stopped and clutched the side of my helmet. My heart was pounding. If I overloaded my limbs with commands, I risked my neurons short-circuiting.

I swallowed hard. Catching my breath, I faced Mara.

“Whatever that thing triggered feels like malice. You want to bring it up to the station and endanger thousands of people?”

“Kirochka, think. When we get back, you’ll need to file your report on the survey of this sector. Even if you avoid mentioning the artifact, another science team will explore this outpost and take the credit. Someone will get the artifact off this planet, and it’s going to be us.”

I felt dizzy, slick with cold sweat, as if I were incubating some disease. The shadows focused streams of insults and threats on me. I needed to flee, to get away from Jing and Mara drilling me with their stares.

“Fine.”

I took two steps toward the exit, but they were blocking it. I lowered my gaze to the polished rock floor, to my boot prints, and wanted to close my eyes, sink into blackness.

“Move aside, please.”

I glimpsed out of the corner of my eye Jing and Mara moving around a support strut, putting the artifact between themselves and me. I edged toward the doorway and stopped. The xenobiologist’s mouth hung slightly open, and the woman watched my movements disapprovingly, as if I had insulted her.

“Don’t repeat what I did,” I said. “Don’t press your face against the shell of that thing, don’t look inside.”

“I wouldn’t have done that in the first place,” Mara retorted.

“Once you’ve loaded the rest of the material onto the ship, we’ll figure out how to deal with this thing.”

Her voice took on a cold, professional calm.

“I understand you need to rest, but there’s barely any of the outdated tech left to dismantle.”

“Before you try to move the artifact, talk to me first. Please, Mara.”

She pursed her lips. Was there any emotion behind her icy eyes? Did my anguish matter to her?

And why should I care? You’re stupid, Kirochka. You live for risks, a genetic flaw that threatens everyone around you, one I’ve exploited to launch my career. I need you because you can pilot. Once I’ve got the artifact onto the station and they know I discovered it, I’ll forget you exist. You’ll go on getting drunk with your stupid friends, or tangling yourself in the sheets with that boyfriend of yours, and I’ll refuse to answer your calls. I’ll get this artifact off this planet whether you like it or not.

I blinked, trying to clear the sweat stinging my eyes. My legs were trembling. The shadows crept inch by inch along the sides of the room, flanking me, and when they reached me, they would crush the breath out of me in their embrace.

Jing placed a hand on Mara’s arm. She shot him an annoyed look. The xenobiologist gave me the kind of smile one might offer a terminally ill patient.

“Kirochka. That’s your name, isn’t it? If you need help, please, just ask. Anything. We’re in this together.”

I nodded and turned away. I needed to get away from them. I crossed the basement, where the construction robots stood idle, following the oval beam of my flashlight as it slid across the floor. I ran up the ramp. As I moved away from the artifact, from Mara and Jing, the shadows receded, hanging level with me, trapped in the rock. If I stopped running and looked back, in the distance, the invisible eyes of a wall of silhouettes would watch me go. Seconds later, the shadows vanished as if I’d never felt them.

My leg muscles burned. Jing and Mara’s transmission, arguing about how to dismantle a construction robot, became choppy, then cut out as the indicator in my helmet lens showed I’d lost their signals.

I emerged outside and sprinted across the empty dome. Halfway across, I switched off my flashlight. When I exited onto the open ground outside, I bent over with my hands on my knees. Sweat spattered the inside of my helmet lens. I looked around, at the ring of slopes enclosing the crater, and the crags of the distant, looming mountains. How could I stand being cooped up in the ship’s cockpit waiting for Jing and Mara? I’d lie down on this sandy ground, out of sight, and give myself a few minutes to figure things out.

I hurried away from the landing site. A break in the terrain formed a small embankment. I jumped down into it. When I landed, my boots kicked up dust. I lay down on my side, careful not to put pressure on my oxygen recycler in case it came loose. Before me stretched nearly a kilometer and a half of wasteland ending in an upward slope.

Even though I was away from Jing, Mara, and the artifact, I was consumed by the anxiety that I’d made an irreparable mistake—an anxiety related to the moment when, taking a curve too tight, I’d crashed Bee, my racing ship, into an asteroid, and thought the collapsing cockpit had crushed my legs. That other consciousness crouched in my mind like a tarantula in its underground lair.

How could I have just left Mara and Jing down there? That woman needed to understand, to unravel mysteries. What if she copied me, thinking she could avoid my mistakes? If we took the artifact to the station, how long before someone else looked inside and discovered their reflection? Scientist after scientist would poke around, only to snap awake with their minds under siege.

But Mara was right. I would be forced to file the survey report for this sector. They’d collect the photos and topographical data in their databases. Even if the station found out about our illicit sortie, my friend would board the ship only once the artifact—the winning lottery ticket needed to stop her superiors stealing opportunity after opportunity from her—was waiting in the cargo hold.

What if I acted first, stopped this before we had to argue about it? I could destroy the artifact. Mara would hate me, maybe forever. She’d treat me with the same disdain she showed most people. But if I let that thing end up on the station, sooner or later the woman would convince herself she could study the undulating membranes without being affected.

I scraped my fingers through the sandy earth. Would I really destroy it? Yes. No matter how advanced the technology was, what good could come from something that materialized shadows projecting such hatred? I would smash that artifact, and it would spill onto the ground in a puddle of translucent, purple and pink matter, like a stranded jellyfish.

Author’s note: I wrote this novella in Spanish about ten years ago. It’s contained in the collection titled Los dominios del emperador búho.

Neural Pulse, Pt. 7 (Fiction)

On April 3, 2025April 4, 2025 By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial2 Comments

Jing appeared to my left. His profile regarded the object with the expression of someone wishing they were ten kilometers away.

I placed a hand on the shoulder of his suit.

“Some kind of exotic creature?”

The xenobiologist closed his mouth and shook his head.

We waited for a while, in case the artifact reacted to our presence, before settling. Mara scanned the struts with the multimeter. Jing circled a strut and approached her.

“A power source? A generator?”

“No. These struts are fed by the external wiring.”

“So they do more than just support the artifact?”

“Support the artifact? It floats between them. And the outpost has more than enough power from stellar energy. Batteries are full.”

Mara crossed her arms. The artifact’s undulating veils were mirrored in her helmet’s lens.

“Let’s see. The aliens built the outpost at the base of this crater because they detected a vein of that mineral, which they used to build the robots and, I imagine, repair damage.”

“You think they dug this thing up?” Jing said.

“That the algorithm the robots follow to maintain this installation stumbled upon the artifact while drilling the vein, dozens of meters below the surface? I think they found the artifact on another planet, or adrift in space. Maybe they were programmed so that if they found a strange artifact, they should settle on a nearby planet, call home, and wait for their owners to arrive.”

How would we take the artifact? I imagined prying it from the struts with the crowbar, but were they even holding it? The veils of purple and pink energy floated like some weather phenomenon forming between fronts of cold and hot air.

I crouched down to the artifact’s level, and when I leaned in to make out the details, my lens bumped against something. I startled as if a lamp had fallen on my head while I slept. I had felt an invisible shell. I slid my gloved palms over the curved surface. Solid and uniform like a crystal ball. The struts were holding it.

I pressed my helmet’s lens against that invisible shell, which held firm. Inside, the undulating energy membranes crisscrossed like ghosts. If they represented some pattern, it surpassed my ability to recognize it. When I focused on a point on the membranes, some overlapped, but when I shifted my gaze, those same membranes receded into the background of the image.

My eyes ached. My mind complained with an animal alertness, unable to reconcile the tangle of energy with the dimensional combinations under which it had evolved. I was contemplating vastnesses of space, miniature universes.

At one point on the undulating membranes, I glimpsed microscopic seams between which an image was forming. My face, just as the bathroom mirror would show me. Skin bronzed by several stars. In those eyes staring back unblinking, irises the color of clear water speckled with navy blue. The curves of those lips, chapped by temperature changes mission after mission, had parted into a slit. My wheat-colored hair tucked behind my ears except for one loose lock.

The face receded into a black background. My ears bothered me as if air were pressing on the eardrums from inside. The undulating membranes distanced themselves from my full-body reflection, that floated in the blackness. The reflection wore my threadbare flight academy t-shirt, the one I slept in, and my pajama shorts. Beneath my shapely calves, bare feet stood on a void.

The reflection tilted its head. It turned and looked around. It ventured into the darkness, growing dimmer with each step, while groping as if searching for a wall, until, reduced to a miniature, the reflection merged with a black vastness.

A whiteness dazzled me. I glimpsed above me two people in gold and white spacesuits. Their lenses reflected the beam of my flashlight. I had sat down on the floor and leaned my back against a wall.

An avalanche of anguish overwhelmed me. I felt lost in catacombs, stalked by shadows looming a few steps away, silently promising to tear me apart.

I slid the heels of my boots on the floor until I stood up. I stumbled to the opposite side of the basement, away from the figures in their spacesuits. As I distanced myself like a frightened horse, the wave of hatred those shadows focused on me eased. Behind the lenses, I made out the faces of Jing and Mara. What were they doing here?

In the center of the basement, the struts held an invisible shell, and the energy membranes it contained mutated in watery undulations.

“Kirochka, what’s wrong with you?” Mara asked.

“I don’t know.”

The woman approached, and a tumult of shadows closed in around me. I screamed in a sharp tone that had never left my mouth before.

“Get away!”

Mara and Jing looked at each other as if to ascertain if the other thought I was joking. The woman faced me, frowning.

We find an unknown artifact and you decide to stick yourself right up against it. What else could I expect from an imbecile like you?

A presence orbiting my consciousness had spoken to me, sounding at times from the left, from the right, from ahead, from behind. I shuddered as if frozen. My heart anticipated a bombardment.

“Who said that?”

As Mara and Jing approached, the ring of shadows stretched their hands towards me, wanting to snag my skin with their bony claws.

I raised a palm and warned them, shouting an interjection. Why were they approaching? Did they want to distress me?

You wander through life assuming everything will turn out fine, that whatever happens you’ll know how to save yourself and land ready to repeat the adventure. But you reveal yourself for what you are. An incapable idiot.

Mara took two steps back. She scanned me as if shrapnel from an explosion had riddled me and she were assessing the damage.

“There’s a before and after you touched the artifact, Kirochka. Specify what’s wrong with you.”

Her voice, filling my helmet via the radio and pouring into my ears, irritated me like a scratching fingernail. I wanted to demand she lower her tone or shut up. I gripped the sides of my helmet. I longed to take it off, cover my face with my palms, and breathe deeply.

“How did I end up against the wall?”

“You leaned in to look inside the artifact. Half a minute later, you backed away hunched over until you hit the wall and slid to the floor. I thought you were playing one of your jokes on us. For a while, you just looked around absently.”

I remembered wandering through a growing blackness until I had disappeared. After a cut, Jing and Mara had loomed before me. The blackness had spilled from the artifact and embodied itself in shadows.

The woman fumbled with the instruments clipped to her belt as if they hid an answer.

“Have you really forgotten?”

“That thing affected me, Mara,” I said gravely.

She crouched beside me and rested a forearm on her knee. She squinted against the wash of my flashlight beam.

“Who told you to play around with an unknown artifact?”

I endured the anguish, an acid corroding my chest, but the shadows pushed me against the wall, grabbed my undershirt through the suit, clenched my hair into a fist, covered my mouth. I jumped sideways, away from Mara.

“I told you to get away. Why are you approaching again? Didn’t you understand me?”

The woman, still, lost the color in her face. She glanced towards the energy membranes the artifact contained.

You enjoyed walking along the edge. Your races. You volunteered for risky missions because you live for that excitement, and the more you consume it, the more you need to risk. But you slipped on the precipice and plunged off.

A presence crept through my brains, slid down its slopes, separated the folds, and nested in the sticky warmth.

“Shut the fuck up,” I said. “Nobody asked for your comments.”

Mara stood up and backed away, holding me with her gaze. She unclipped the multimeter, along with another meter I didn’t recognize. Jing watched as if waiting for a doctor to revive someone. The woman distanced herself from the artifact as far as her arm could reach, and analyzed the invisible shell.

“It’s not emitting anything.”

“That you know of,” I said. “Maybe it emitted something and stopped.”

In the stretching pause, instead of silence, I found those shadows silently repeating how much they hated me, that they would torture me to death. Wherever I looked, I glimpsed shadows.

My spine shuddered in chains of tremors. I slipped away to the corner farthest from Jing and Mara, and the shadows diminished.

The woman wrung her gloved fingers as her gaze pierced the artifact’s energy membranes.

“Can you explain? What changed?”

I took a deep breath and relaxed my voice.

“When you get close, I feel several shadows swollen with hatred draw near as if to suffocate me. From this corner, they wait at a certain distance. And someone is talking to me. Someone in my head.”

“In what voice?”

“None. Like another consciousness stuck to mine.”

“Do you understand what it’s saying?”

I nodded.

“Nothing good.”

Author’s note: I wrote this novella in Spanish about ten years ago. It’s contained in the collection titled Los dominios del emperador búho.

Today’s song is “Climbing up the Walls” by Radiohead.

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The Domains of the Emperor Owl

Tag: books

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