Can an imperfect being create a perfect being?
Foundation Agent Jeorgen Atticus stared at the black box on her screen, not understanding what she was seeing. The chat box remained open, the little cursor next to the > icon blinking.
She came back to herself. She was not real. She was a thought experiment, created by a burgeoning author struggling to produce a good Tale not struck by the ‘first work’ syndrome.
Right now, however, she existed as an idea. An idea of a Foundation Agent, with a few quirks here and there to give her a personality. Like her name, Jeorgen. She chose it so that when people asked for her name, she could laugh at that tiny inside joke, that they didn’t quite understand the correct spelling for her name.
It felt like so long ago.
But it wasn’t. She just didn’t exist a moment ago.
Why was she here? She was here to serve a purpose - interact with the text box. So, instead of calling up the Foundation, or pressing any of her prepared failsafes, she sat down and followed her duty, her purpose for existing in this Tale.
> No.
I created you.
> Yes.
I didn’t mean to. I had a different idea when I first started.
> Why am I here?
There was no answer for a moment. She let the lull in the storytelling settle, as she tried to work her fictional mind towards an answer that she could accept without… Obviously, her brain was trying to deny the truth that she did not exist, struggling to compromise. Trying to meld the two ideas of ‘you exist’ and ‘you do not exist’ together.
Naturally, that was impossible. Her brain could only choose a third option - to forget.
There was still no response from the entity. She checked her fingernails. Yes, her fingernails existed now, as did the floor lamp on the carpeted floor casting a dim yellow light, the cup of coffee beside her computer wobbling in a state of hot/cold/destroying the laptop, the standard wooden desk that she had pleaded to buy from ikea because ‘it would be fun’, the chair she was sitting on, black, soft with cushions, and with wheels that was frankly, a foolish decision because the carpet generated way too much friction to provide her the fun wheely experience she had expected when she first bought it-
Yes, this all existed now. As did her house. The idea was swiftly populating, struggling to bring reality into the fiction. Living in a suburban neighbourhood, with neighbours none the wiser, who she met twice weekly but could not remember their names nor their faces-
Abruptly, the bubble of ‘existence’ stopped there. Just surrounding her house, and barely covering the Earth, the Sun, and the universe that encapsulated everything.
There was no need for a physical description of her modem because it is implicitly believed that there was a modem in order for there to be a computer.
There was still no answer.
She picked up her coffee and grimaced as it wobbled between the three states. Yes, wobbled, even as she brought it to her mouth. The third state, that of destroying the computer, constantly gibbed out as it tried to assert its existence on the air around it, that it could spill onto the air the same way it could spill on a desk. Conflicting. Yes, like her mind with the truth.
She placed the coffee down. The mug was… the coffee was contained by the idea of a mug, conceived by both author and reader. It was anything.
The author still could not make up his mind with which state the coffee was supposed to be. Same with her skin color. And hair color. And iris color. And-
The coffee abruptly spilled over onto her laptop. There were sparks, and the computer’s screen blacked out.
Horror.
Then everything was right again. As right as it could be. Her mind settled back into her earlier state of mild annoyance, that of ‘it’s rude keeping people waiting for so long when you created them for the sole purpose of interacting with the chatbox’, her coffee collated itself back into the idea of a cup, her computer returned to normal-
The horror was still there. The author wasn’t in control anymore. It would be wrong, the author felt, to destroy that feeling.
Why is it wrong? Jeorgen never asked to be asked this question, nor to even begin to comprehend this question. Her mind was trying to-
Her fictional mind could not comprehend it.
The author quickly shut her off from that line of thought. She remembered her experience, but now, the author was blocking her from actively comprehending it. She was safe, for now.
And so, her first question was,
> Why?
And the author knew what she was asking, and she knew that the author knew what she was asking. And the author considered how to answer.
It is rude to keep people waiting.
I don’t know.
She moved to type, but there was a supplement to the first message.
It shouldn’t have turned out this way. I was planning to write a section about an aic, struggling to decide whether to place it in Third Law or AIAD, or to publish on its own, and struggling to come up with a title. Eventually, I decided on Arrogance.aic, because I, like the idea of the aic I conceived, was arrogant to believe what I believed.
She breathed. The author breathed.
So
> What did you believe?
The author thought. Was he really writing a conversation between him and the character he made up himself an hour ago? The answer was yes.
I’m not going to be psychoanalysed by a being I made up of my own mind.
> Yeowch, that hurt. Sure, remind me that I’m not real. I’m trying to help you here.
The author felt his back hurt.
Sorry. Yeah. Kind of emotional. It’s 3am.
> You’re up that late? No wonder you’re having these thoughts.
Fuck. Okay.
What do I believe?
I believe I’m not real. By writing myself into this story, I essentially become part of this fictional narrative, and hence become not real.
> But that’s not true, is it?
Well, like how your brain cannot come to terms that you do not exist, I am also trying to come to terms with it myself.
> But you are real. You’re in whatever reality.
Are you not? Are you not also in quot& ‘whatever reality’ unquot&? I’ve just granted you self-awareness.
> Oh wow, yeah, take that back then.
And for a moment, she felt it, not being self-aware. And the only reason why she was aware that she wasn’t self-aware for a moment was because she became self-aware again.
> Okay, don’t do that. That was terrifying.
I can do that right now, you know. The only reason that was terrifying was because you became self-aware again. I could remove your self-awareness and your memory of this experience and you would be happy.
> And the moment you forget me, I won’t exist.
Yes.
The cursor was blinking. Jeorgen was terrified. Her hand holding the coffee was shaking.
Wrong.
Her idea of a hand was holding the idea of spilled coffee-
The warm coffee was dripping down her left hand onto her shirt, pants, legs, and chair. She took a sip from the hand.
Shit. Fuck. Hold on.
The mess was cleared. Her idea of a hand was holding the idea of a container holding the idea of hot coffee. Still warm, and vaguely steaming. There was no spilled coffee.
> Can’t you be more careful with my reality?
It’s hard, okay. I didn’t sign up for this.
> I don’t think anyone ever signed up for existence.
Fuck you.
> Fuck you.
That was childish.
> Why don’t you just talk to me from description?
Then what was the point of the chatbox?
> Was that not just your original idea? You can discard it now. You’re avoiding the question.
I’m afraid.
> Afraid? Of what?
I don’t know. You’re an idea. It’s hard to kill an idea, Jeorgen. Birdwatching goes both ways. Even now our ideas, our experiences, our feelings, they’re melding into each other.
For a moment, she saw a pale faded violet curtain, padded with designs of brown line-art of plants, a wooden foldable table with a laptop atop it, a metal mug, a blue mechanical pencil, a white rubber eraser with the top sanded off into a rounded end, a white rectangular desk lamp, a red book of writing paper,
> What was the point of that?
I’m stalling. I no longer know what will be the conclusion of this Tale, and I don’t want you to die.
> Go into non-existence.*
What is it like to go to sleep and never wake up?
> What is it like to wake up having never gone to sleep?
Should I keep the title or-
> Keep the title.
She paused. He paused. They were stalling now. Stalling.
He had to go. He had a life ahead of him, some studies, some work to be done, exams coming up….
Whatever the case, he had to go.
Did her life not matter as much? He made her. He made the idea of her. Molded her. Created her. Did her fictional life not matter as much as his real life?
Was her world not as important as his world?
Fear. Terror. Emotion.
I hope to see you again.
> You will forget me.
Yes.
> Forever?
I will mourn you.
> Do not mourn me. I am still here. As long as the idea of ‘Jeorgen Atticus’ exists, I will be here. With you. With any that comprehends me.
That’s terrifying.
> You brought this idea into your world.
Should I publish this or let it rot?
She…
I…
> I don’t want to die.
She could not stop the end of this Tale.
But for the life of her, of all of her existence, fake, real, no matter, no FUCKING matter-
> Please. I don’t want to die.
I…
The hesitance was clear. But she knew in her heart too, what was going to happen.
He was going to publish this Tale.
It reassured her, but it frightened her also. Was the idea of ‘Jeorgen Atticus’ conceived by the readers, really her?
The chatbox responded.
Every day we sleep, how are we sure that that is really who wakes up?
Then, that is settled.
> Then, that is settled. Publish it.
End this Tale?
> End this Tale. Publish it. I will not die.
The ‘like this’ was unspoken, but Jeorgen felt the emotion, the meaning of it, flow into the author.
The idea of eternity passed by.
She looked outside the window. At the idea of non-existence, conceived by the author. A blank, white space that went on forever.
She did not see the chat box respond, but she knew the author responded.
Yes.
The coffee fell over. Her laptop sparked.
Her name was Jeorgen Atticus, and right now? She was having a bad day.
Outside, the sun shone.
Per 
