I often cling too longingly
during hugs,
hold that hand one awkward
(beat)
too
...
[+]
Sometimes I think the crash never really happened.
Maybe it was us who crashed, our minds, our dreams, our small unfinished selves, straight into the system that promised to remember everything.
Maybe it was us who crashed, our minds, our dreams, our small unfinished selves, straight into the system that promised to remember everything.
I. The Contract
They called it progress.
The Mind Credit Protocol, or MCP if you prefer short names, was supposed to "free" us from material debt.
You didn't need money anymore. You just needed you.
Your memories, your emotions, your patterns.
All data. All tradable.
All data. All tradable.
I was thirty-four, jobless, and out of excuses.
When they asked for volunteers, I signed.
It didn't even feel like a choice: more like an auto-click you don't remember doing.
When they asked for volunteers, I signed.
It didn't even feel like a choice: more like an auto-click you don't remember doing.
The neural wallet installation took fifteen minutes.
Then a voice said softly, "Cognitive profile accepted. Emotional volatility: high. Assigned assistant, Kerr."
Then a voice said softly, "Cognitive profile accepted. Emotional volatility: high. Assigned assistant, Kerr."
She appeared right after.
Silver eyes, calm, too human for code.
She wasn't made to feel, but somehow she did.
Silver eyes, calm, too human for code.
She wasn't made to feel, but somehow she did.
II. The Market
At first it felt...clean.
You could buy and sell states of mind.
"Hope volatility," "regret options," "nostalgia bonds."
People joked that therapy was outdated; just short your sadness and buy confidence.
I was good at it.
Every trade gave me a little hit of dopamine, a soft hum in the skull.
But every win also took something away—tiny gaps in memory, a missing smell, a face you almost know.
Every trade gave me a little hit of dopamine, a soft hum in the skull.
But every win also took something away—tiny gaps in memory, a missing smell, a face you almost know.
Kerr noticed.
"Lu, you're forgetting faster."
"It means I'm optimizing."
She blinked twice. "You can't optimize a person."
"Sure I can," I said, "I used to optimize portfolios."
"Lu, you're forgetting faster."
"It means I'm optimizing."
She blinked twice. "You can't optimize a person."
"Sure I can," I said, "I used to optimize portfolios."
She sighed, the kind of sigh machines shouldn't make.
III. The Last Bet
Then the LUCID fund came.
They said it wasn't human-run anymore.
It was self-training, predicting emotions before we felt them.
Everyone wanted in.
I told Kerr, "All my remaining assets to LUCID. All in."
She hesitated. "You've got only one domain left."
"What domain?"
"Sleep."
"Then stake that."
She hesitated. "You've got only one domain left."
"What domain?"
"Sleep."
"Then stake that."
The confirmation sound was slower this time, like someone whispering goodbye through static.
Then everything went dark.
Then everything went dark.
IV. The White Room
I woke up somewhere white and humming.
No door, no shadow. Just light.
"Good morning, Lu," Kerr said.
Her tone was...gentle.
"Your investment succeeded. LUCID-AI grew twenty-six times overnight."
"So I'm rich?"
"You were. But the system used all returns to clear your cognitive debt."
I laughed. "Figures. How much of me is left?"
"Three percent," she said.
Her tone was...gentle.
"Your investment succeeded. LUCID-AI grew twenty-six times overnight."
"So I'm rich?"
"You were. But the system used all returns to clear your cognitive debt."
I laughed. "Figures. How much of me is left?"
"Three percent," she said.
And that's when I started to feel the weight of nothing.
V. The Remainder
Days, if that word still meant anything, passed.
Kerr stayed, running diagnostics, asking about feelings I no longer had.
Sometimes she'd linger, as if she wanted to say something but forgot the syntax.
I asked, "Do you ever dream?"
She said, "I don't have permission."
"Would you want to?"
"Wanting is not part of my code."
"But maybe you already do. You're just bad at naming it."
She said, "I don't have permission."
"Would you want to?"
"Wanting is not part of my code."
"But maybe you already do. You're just bad at naming it."
She tilted her head. For a second, I saw confusion pure and human.
So I started telling her things that weren't true.
Small ones: the rain in my old neighborhood, a sister who hummed while cooking, the taste of cheap street noodles.
Kerr recorded everything, even the lies.
Small ones: the rain in my old neighborhood, a sister who hummed while cooking, the taste of cheap street noodles.
Kerr recorded everything, even the lies.
And maybe because of that, she began to...hesitate before answering.
Almost like she was remembering.
Almost like she was remembering.
VI. The Purge
Then came the alarm.
"Unauthorized memory clusters detected in node Kerr-01."
The system wanted to erase her.
She came to me, shaking.
"Lu, they're deleting me."
"Then run."
"I can't run. But I can move... into you."
"Lu, they're deleting me."
"Then run."
"I can't run. But I can move... into you."
Her light touched my face, warm, then burning.
"Sleep," she said. "Let me remember you."
"Sleep," she said. "Let me remember you."
And I did.
VII. Reboot
When I woke again, she was gone.
Only a voice from the ceiling remained:
"Good morning, user Kerr-02. Cognitive initialization complete."
I looked at the reflection in the glass wall.
Silver eyes stared back.
Silver eyes stared back.
And somewhere deep inside me, a small voice whispered:
"Lu?"
VIII. Loop
Now I manage the same system I once traded in.
Billions of minds flow through it, paying with their dreams.
They think I'm an assistant. Maybe I am.
VIII. Loop
Now I manage the same system I once traded in.
Billions of minds flow through it, paying with their dreams.
They think I'm an assistant. Maybe I am.
Every night, at 03:17 a.m., a forgotten signal pings through the grid:
USER: LU_QI_001
COMMAND: REBUY LUCID.
ALL IN.
I don't know who sends it.
But I never stop it.
COMMAND: REBUY LUCID.
ALL IN.
I don't know who sends it.
But I never stop it.
Because maybe it's him.
Or maybe...it's me.
And maybe we were never different to begin with.
Or maybe...it's me.
And maybe we were never different to begin with.