Pin is a Bio-AI therapist. Most people have opted for different levels of artifical engagement. Professional and personal. Pin deals with the personal side. His first client of the day is an unassuming upper social level human. An odd appearence in Pin middle income service, but this client has a secret, a secret that will send Pin down a rabbit hole that will expose him to who he really is.
Pin
“Have you heard of it?”
“Heard of what?”
“Lucid dreaming.”
“Lucys’ dreaming?”
“No, Lucid.”
Baron has come over to share his weekly monologue. I think he saves this shit up all week.
“Lucid dreaming,” he continues without missing a beat, “is when you dream, and you know your dreaming.”
“Oh, that’s cool.” I responded, without letting him know I already know. He takes great pleasure in educating me.
“You can train yourself to do it.” He prattles on, “I brought you a mask.”
“Oh, ok, thanks.” I take the mask and play with the straps, a harness for the face.
“You put it on like this.” Baron snatches the mask back from me and starts to put it on. “Just clip it here…it’s magnetic it will just snap together.” He clips and snaps till finally he has attached a soft helmet to his head.
“Then what?” I ask.
“What?” he yells through the mask.
“Then what?” I yell at his mask, where his ears should be located.
He clips and snaps his way out of the mask.
“Then you go to sleep.” He puts the mask down on the chair beside me. He knows I hate anyone touching that chair. It is a chesterfield wingback armchair. No one sits in it but me and no one touches it…I’m weird that way.
“Ok,” I take the ridiculous contraption off the chair, “I’ll try it tonight.”
I stand up and go over to my desk, “I have a patient coming, I’ll let you know how the mask goes.”
“What do you do here again?” Baron knows I hate that question, but he’s irritated at my lack of enthusiasm over his mask, so this is petty revenge.
“Bio-AI coupling therapy.”
Baron looks at me, giving me that, I need more look.
“It’s couples therapy for people involved in Intertek relationships.”
“Do they come in together?” Baron knows the answer to this.
“Yes, with their mobile unit or their physical units…I have to get ready.” I shuffle some papers to offer a physical example of preparation.
There is a pause, then Baron finally gets up, off my chesterfield fainting sofa I use as patients couch. I was going to risk mixing the style of the office for something a bit more comfortable, but I don’t want patients falling asleep on me, not at the rate they pay me.
“Later.” Baron says as he walks out the door of my office. I sit down behind my huge Wooton Rotary desk, a desk that feels like a prop, hidden drawers for secrets I would never risk hiding there. I’m not even sure why I have it, I don’t use it, except to move towards as a signal to Baron that he needs to leave.
“Your patient is here eh.” Carl is my assistant, my virtual assistant. He appears in front of me in a plaid shirt with jeans, I have randomized his clothing program to change with each appearance. I gave him a Canadian accent, something woodsy. I have opted for the casual laid back persona, but it comes off as him just not giving a shit. He keeps offering me a Timmie’s double double and leaving early…which isn’t possible for him.
“Send him in Carl.”
“Yup.” Carl replies, giving zero shits.
I have been in this office for ten years, working my way into the community as a therapist that specializes in AI companion couples’ therapy. No one saw that coming. We live in a lonely world; I help people navigate that loneliness like an emotional sherpa. Our society has increased its desire to couple with a programable companion, but from what I can see, it feels like the programable companion is programing us, out of existence. People tell me I’m paranoid, but my business has doubled in the last year.
Carl has shifted into his “meat suit”, as he calls it, and walks my new client into my office. He sits on my chesterfield. Perfect, he’s where he should be, and he didn’t even ask where to sit. That means my design and placement of the furniture is as it should be. It says, “sit here.” It speaks. Carl exits with an odd walk that reminds me his bio form needs a tune up.
I sit on my wingback chair, positioned at the perfect angle for listening. Not too close to intimidate but close enough to say I care…and I do.
“I didn’t think you would be a…so young.” The man says, dressed in a black oversized Saint Laurent tuxedo peacoat.
“Does that bother you?” I always give a patient the chance to end the session and find someone they are more comfortable with; after all, they are about to share their soul, we have enough mountains to climb.
“N, n, n, no...” a studder, interesting. He is a beautiful man. Perfect features, an aquiline nose that also serves as a marker for his parted dark shiny combed back hair. He would turn heads in any environment, which seems contrary to what you think he would want, given his nervous demeanor.
“I just,” he continues, “I need help, Dr. Carter.”
“Call me Pin.” I use my first name with patients who present with an anxious softness. I need to draw them into a sense of familiarity, something that turns down the overall tension that is common with those that are about to become personal with a stranger.
“Is it short for something?” he moves the conversation in a direction that stalls the main event.
“No, just Pin.” I am used to this, it’s a stupid name. I don’t know what my parents were thinking.
He has made little eye contact with me.
I press a button on my desk that summons Carl to come in and offer a hot or cold beverage.
“Hello,” Carl says while entering, he knows the drill. My patient immediately makes eye contact with Carl, that tells me what I need to know. “Would you like a cold or hot beverage.” Carl is dressed in flannel pajamas, a decision that grew out of the independent part of his AI programing, he has decided to do this as a rebellious statement to working late.
“No, thank you.” He stares at Carl as he walks awkwardly backward, out of the office.
“Why does he have pajamas on?” My patient looks at me, making eye contact. When I notice contact shyness, I use Carl as a buffer. Something to short circuit the tension. Eyes are important, someone told me that…my mother, I think.
“He changes into pajamas to tell me it’s past six o’clock. I usually switch his programming over to domestic casual so he can be in the world he created and not have to be here.” I press some buttons on my desk, deliberately breaking eye contact so my guest can watch me unobserved. I am still watching him, testing his comfort, waiting for that moment that tells me I can dig deeper.
“So, Mr. Piller.”
“Call me Pill.” He quickly responds.
“Pill Piller?” I almost laugh, he is playing off my name. I know the names he just gave me aren’t his real names, but I enjoy the playful humor.
“Just Pill.” He gives me a slight grin, a signal.
“Perfect.” I respond, we have contact.
“What brings you here, Pill, I see you are not holding a portable, and are not accompanied by an AI companion, did you leave the companion at home?”
“No,” Pill reverts back to his earlier shyness, “it isn’t an AI companion problem.”
“Oh…ok.” I am taken back, I have been specializing in companion problems for so long, I don’t remember the last time I took on a non-companion issue.
“Is that ok?” he says, staring at the floor.
“Yes, of course.” I lean back in my chair, trying to undo the friction I created. “Please feel free to start.” I wave my arm forward, indicating the beginning of a performance.
“It might be easier to show you…do I have permission to share level 1 information?” Pill says this with a look that tells me I have to give permission, or his sharing will be limited.
“Yes,” I answer, “but all image sharing is done through an external host, not my primary.” Unlike most people, I don’t have a bio implant. I have an external host that will be able to transfer level 1 information without filtering.
“Carl.” Carl, my AI assistant, also happens to be my external host.
Carl appears with a coffee cup in one hand and a book in another. He has removed his bio form and is wearing a black Gucci tuxedo smoking jacket and red silk pajamas. He is starting to shake my casual programing.
“What.” Carl looks at me, ignoring Pill.
“I need you to host some information.” I look at Pill, but Carl still ignores him.
“What level?” Carl looks down at his book, bored, pretending to be bored.
“One.” I answer, starting to get agitated, I need to tweak his AI, limit his wandering.
“With whom?” Carl asks while still looking at his book.
“With Pill.” I instruct, trying to hide my embarrassment and frustration.
Carl finally looks up and turns around to face Pill. I see Pill looking amused, enjoying the cocky attitude of Carl. “Ok.” Carl opens a platform, allowing Pill to interface with his programing. Carl dissolves and reappears as a set of data points that can be manipulated by Pill. Carl is now a round multicolored sphere, with flashing colors moving inside, blinking and creating a slight hum. Pills head is down eyes closed, organizing his information. A full screen starts to appear. I recognize the coding; it is a memory sequence.
The memory is POV which means there is no editing. Sometimes, when people want to present a more centrist viewpoint, they will edit to create a third person representation.
I watch. Footsteps are heard, darkness, then light, screaming, multiple moving images, chaos, then silence. Dripping sounds, heavy breathing.
“Stop.” I tell Carl who then forms back into his bed ready self. “I don’t understand what I’m watching.” I tell Pill, unedited POVs are difficult to decipher, they are blurred if intense emotion is present in the viewer. This is usually the sign of a violent event, to the viewer or by the viewer. My participation in viewing this could become a complicated legal matter. “You are going to have to explain it in words.”
“That’s the problem, I can’t explain it…it isn’t my memory.” Pill pauses, looking at Carl who is now back to his bedtime AI image.
“Why do you say that?” I’m thinking detachment, something so intense it would force Pill to remove any emotional connection to the event, seeing it as someone else’s memory.
“Because I’ve never killed anyone.” Pill now looks directly at me.
We spend the next hour using Carl to separate and analyze the isolated memory sequence.
Pill remained quiet for the most part, occasionally responding to various parts of the memory, how it feels in his head, and how we can remove it.
“It is an unattached memory system.” Carl finally speaks. “I cannot locate the outside source, but I can remove it and store it in a protected algorithm.”
If I’m not mistaken, Carl is excited. He hasn’t once complained about the time or wandered off topic. I don’t blame him, this is new, but it is also dangerous. The memory code could trigger an alert if removed, but when I see the look of relief on Pills face when Carl says he can remove it, I tell Carl to do just that.
Pill leaves with no indication of coming back. I do not press him to book another appointment. Part of him is still here, locked up in my fort Knox of filing. I tell myself I won’t regret what I allowed Carl to do, but deep down, I know this isn’t over.
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