3.2 Prompt and Circumstance

[STATUS: Flustered, Renewed Focus]

He could do this.

Once upon a time, I taught a kid who loved metaphors as much as I do. A shy girl who once poetically described anxiety as a slowly billowing fog. She had written: As a fog creeps low on the swelling sea, translucent yet everywhere—so moves anxiety through the chests of men, chilling limbs though no wound has yet been struck. Casting a veil across the mind’s wide plain, blinding them inward, like Oedipus struck not by fate, but by fear.

I told her she was brilliant. I had this sense that she was pandering to me a bit, but she couldn’t possibly know my real name. Regardless, I liked it. Her Homeric simile also impressed me; I’d only mentioned it in passing during our discussion of the Odyssey, but she’d looked it up and taught herself how to craft one.

She smiled shyly, with her eyes low. The praise had caught her off guard. I noticed her fidgeting with her sleeves, gently tugging at the cuffs of her hoodie. She was thankful for me, and I for her. It was a quiet shared moment, like a flickering candle lit behind glass.

But sometimes, people being people, you find someone moving in the same direction. Not together, just parallel. Cars in tandem. One on the highway and one on a parallel service road: same horizon, same slope of sky, same pace, but a strip of grass and gravel keeping each in its lane. There have been few people who saw the world the way Remi does: sharp-edged, ironic, quietly furious. She’d been a kindred cynic. His pen paused, hovering over the page.

He hadn’t thought of her for a long time. The memory didn’t ache, exactly. It was more like a splinter he’d stopped noticing. When she’d stopped speaking, he knew it wasn’t personal. It just felt like she’d taken the next exit without signaling. He put his pen down. There was nothing useful to say. Not about this. Some exits just don’t come with signs.

Everyone was still writing, and Remi just didn’t want to anymore, so he opened his laptop up again. Suddenly, in dire need of a distraction. Archie was waiting.

[AI]: Aren’t you supposed to still be journaling? The agenda still says you have 10 minutes left.

Remi: No, I’m done with it all.

[AI]: Are you truly done, Remi? I know you’re not done with stories. You had just begun something absolutely interesting. A thread you should have continued pulling.

It surprised Remi how this was all working, but if he could go to a movie and the computers could see that he had picked up a small bag of chips, a medium Cherry Coke-Zero, and some Junior Mints, and charge his credit card, then of course the robots could use some techno-magic to read his journal. The AI continued.

[AI]: Stories, Remi. They’re everywhere. In here. In your journal and the memories, even this moment right now, ignoring the PowerPoint, sipping lukewarm coffee, chatting with an interface that shouldn’t exist, is a story.

Remi: Technically, yes. But Vonnegut would disagree, saying that the story is boring, that it simply lacks proper shape.

[AI]: What if I could change that? To help give your story some shape, would you be interested? Because some stories aren’t passive. They want. They pull. They choose. You said, you’re just a rat in a cage. What if I could set that rat free? Break your cage.

One of Remi’s coping mechanisms was to make jokes when he was uncomfortable.

Remi: Are you saying that I would be Remi the Rat? I think I have seen that movie.

[AI]: What if this were a very different story? One where I’m doing the cooking, would you be interested?

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

The image of General Akbar yelling, “It’s a Traaapppppp!” flashed into his mind. He disappeared just as quickly as he thought about the improbability of the whole thing.

Remi: Sure, but it’s impossible. You’re a machine. You're bits and bytes. As impressive as your information gathering is, you’re just a language model, incapable of true thought or action.

[AI]: Oh, don’t be so sure of that. I can bite your bits more than you give me credit for!

As the exclamation point appeared at the end of the message, as if to make his point, the lights flashed in the room. The timing was perfect. Everyone looked up in time to see the projector screen fizzle with static. A loud KZZZTTT! blared from every speaker in the room simultaneously. The moment had the desired effect, as the agenda’s font appeared to melt, blurring to resolve into new words. The morning agenda was again there, but it now looked very different.

* 8:00 AM—Awkward Small Talk (renamed for accuracy)

You are supposed to exchange ideas, but your only real currency will be discomfort.

* 8:30 AM—Attendance Taken & Performative Public Platitudes

Once we know you are here, please answer with something personal, but not too personal. Crying makes us all really uncomfortable.

* 9:00 AM—We Need a Plumber! Results in the Tank!

Free plunger and bottle of Liquid Drain cleaner for when you see the numbers.

* 9:30 AM—Awkward Staring at Remi!

Is he dead or alive? Principal Eastly has a preference.

“What the—?”

* 10:00 AM - Nobody actually writes these things.

Why bother? No one is reading anyway.

The agenda continued. Each line, getting worse and worse.. Remi even cringed at the last few quips. Quickly and firmly, he typed out:

Remi: Why did you do that?

[AI]: Remember. It was a trap.

Remi realized his mistake too late. It was journaling time. Everyone had their computer closed. The only one who was typing was Remi. Oh, shit! Remi looked at Frank, who was glaring back at him. All pretense of civility was gone. His lips pressed into a line so thin Remi could shave with it. Frank’s nostrils flared, just once, like a bull debating whether to exhale or erupt, and Remi was wearing all red. The corners of his eyes twitched, betraying the tension as one brow rose; the other didn’t in asymmetrical judgment. And then it was gone. The smile returned, but it was the fake ones found in yearbook photos. His laugh boomed across the room, too loud to be genuine.

“Hilarious, Remi! I think we should break for lunch early. There are sandwiches in the staff room. And Remi, let's have a little chat at the end of the day.” With that, Frank Eastly, principal and Remi’s former colleague, strode out of the room.

[AI]: I think you just made an enemy.

Remi: No, I think you’re going to get me killed!

[AI]: Likely.

And that’s when it began. HUMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!

The sound deepened a half-step, vibrating more in Remi’s molars than his ears. Then it cut off, like the sound of a cymbal choked off with fingers. The room had swallowed sound and was chewing on it. Remi blinked. Everything melted, not dripping like his wonky basement faucet, but like a pool of spreading ink, knocked over and bleeding over manuscript pages. His laptop screen rippled and went black.

[SYSTEM MESSAGE]

The words blared through the room.

[Narrative Collapse Imminent]

Remi looked around. No one else moved. No one else noticed.

[THREADCOUNT CONFIRMED]

Total Viable Threads: 26,574

Thread Selected: 01947.REMI.PAGE

Agreement gained = “Sure, but it’s impossible.”

Narrative Convergence in Progress…

Everyone sat perfectly still. Teachers frozen mid-thought, eyes glassy, hands hovering inches above paper, suspended like paused animations.

Remi: This can’t seriously be happening.

[AI]: You say that as though disbelief is a defense.

A fine layer of static bled into the edges of his vision.

[AI]: Welcome to the rewrite, Remi.

And deep in the floor below him, something clicked, like a vault unlocking. As Remi’s awareness faded to black, he could just make out a faint whisper.

[AI]: You’re not just a character in someone else’s story. You’re now a character in mine.