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This story takes place a couple of months after Keeping Secrets. It's hard for me to tell, but I don't think it's necessary to read the previous story to enjoy this one, but if you want to read about how Tracy and Kat met, that's where to go. And as always, I will be updating the tags as the different parts are posted to avoid spoilers. -------------- Mission Improbable (Part 1 of 13) "Shit!" Tracy looked out of the window of her van. Big, fat raindrops splattered against the windscreen. "What's the matter Häschen?" Kat's voice on the other end of the phone line asked. "Rain. "That's going to make flying harder." A single one of those big drops could upset the balance of Tracy's little drone. It would also make audio surveillance next to impossible. Lightning flashed somewhere behind the car, illuminating the trees in front of the car briefly. The thunder that followed only moments later drowned out whatever Kat said. "What was that?" Tracy put Kat on speaker while she climbed around the seats to the back of the van. "I said 'just be careful'. I wouldn't want to take care of a zapped, little bunny. You're fussy enough when you're just wet." Tracy felt a blush creep up her neck. "Kat," Tracy pleaded, the whining tone painfully clear even to herself. God, I sound like a four-year-old. "Oh come on," Kat said. "It's not like there's anyone else in your car with you." "How do you know?" "Well, is there?" "No," Tracy admitted. She was struggling to find the neck hole inside her dark grey rain poncho. The stiff plastic of the poncho crackled slightly with static electricity as she pulled it down. The mesh of hair-thin metal wires inside the plastic would hide and distort Tracy's heat signature, making her much harder to see with infra-red cameras. She wasn't expecting anybody to be using that, but if she had to be somewhere in person, she was not going to take any chances. Tracy picked the phone up from the suitcase holding most of her surveillance gear. "Anyway, are you doing anything tonight?" Tracy didn't actually hold her breath; at least not physically. She always felt awkward asking if Kat was free. Asking a dominatrix if she's working felt to Tracy like asking 'are you fucking someone'. It wasn't like she was jealous when Kat was seeing clients. Well, maybe a little. She knew what she was getting into when she and Kat started... dating? No, that wasn't the word she'd use. Maybe 'seeing each other'? No, that didn't seem right either. They weren't two high-schoolers making out between classes. 'Sleeping together' didn't feel right either, although it was true in the most literal sense. Tracy was so lost in her search for the right term that she missed Kat's answer. She shook her head to dismiss the thoughts. "What was that? You dropped out there for a second," Tracy bluffed. "I said I have a client all night. Sorry." Tracy sighed. "Okay." She had hoped that she could snuggle up to Kat after having had to be out in the rain. Even if it was only for a few hours. Sleeping like that was so much more restful than sleeping alone. "Aww. Were you hoping for some snuggles after you were done?" Tracy suddenly realised something. "All night, you said? Are they there now?" "Relax Häschen. It's not like they can hear you." "Still, you know I hate it when we talk like this when you have other people there." "You didn't seem to mind last week when Jessie and Uncle Dieter had us over for dinner." Tracy sighed again, almost rolling her eyes at Kat. "That's different and you know it. They think we're... you know, dating." Tracy cringed at the word. It wasn't like they hadn't gone on dates. But there was a big difference between 'going on dates' and 'dating'. At least in Tracy's mind. "We can have breakfast," Kat suggested. "Or maybe lunch. I don't know how late it'll be before I get some sleep." "Mmm-yeah. Breakfast sounds nice. Surprise me." Tracy knew that Kat could hear her smile. "Do you want me to wear my..." Tracy hesitated, "you know..." Kat laughed. "You can say 'diaper' Häschen. It iss not a naughty verd." She said the last sentence with an exaggerated German accent that made Tracy smile. "I know. It just feels weird to say it." "You know, it's funny. You have more trouble saying the word than you have actually wearing them." "Yeah, yeah. It's hilarious," Tracy said dismissively. "Scheiße, I have to go," Kat said as there was some noise in the background that Tracy couldn't identify. "Tomorrow, wear your diapers if you want to. Or not. We'll figure something out. Bye." "Uh, bye," Tracy said, but Kat had already hung up. "...I guess." She put away the phone and opened the car door, looking out into the downpour. Even before stepping outside, she imagined she could feel a greasy trickle down the back of her neck. Tracy grabbed her camera and checked the batteries. Almost fully charged. Before she slipped the strap over her head, Tracy made sure the waterproof casing was properly closed. Wouldn't want foggy lenses that I can't reach. Tracy stepped out of the van and found herself ankle-deep in a puddle that hadn't been there when she parked. "Damn." Tracy stepped out of the puddle and shook her feet to get some of the water out of her shoes. "Not exactly the greatest start," she said to no-one in particular. Grabbing a black, plastic briefcase and a small tripod, Tracy closed the door and locked it. The alarm activated with a quiet chirp. Then she trudged off into the bushes. Half an hour later, Tracy was in place. She was crouching in a bush halfway up a small hill. Below her was a footpath with a metal bench and a trash can with a couple of impressive dents. Tracy absent-mindedly wondered what could have made the dents. They looked too big to be from bikes, but the footpath was too narrow and twisting for cars. ATVs maybe? Tracy checked her watch: A quarter to one. In fifteen minutes, that trash can was going to be one of the richest trash cans in the city. Tracy shifted her weight, moving her knee out of the small brook that had appeared only minutes after she had settled down in her bush. Her mind drifted back to earlier that day. *** Tracy had been in her office, working on the final report to a client when there was a quiet knock on the door. Tracy checked the camera outside the door. Kat had insisted she install the camera and reinforce the office door after a case had gone badly, in a death-threat kind of way a couple of months earlier. Outside the door was a woman and man. They didn't look like a threat, so Tracy pressed the button to unlock the door. The lock buzzed and clicked and after a few moments, the couple entered. Tracy pushed her keyboard aside and motioned to the chairs in front of the desk. "Please, have a seat." Tracy found her trusty notepad and pencil. Then she pushed the phone to the middle of the desk. "You don't mind if I record this..." Tracy paused and studied the couple for a few moments. The man was sitting with his eyes lowered, turned slightly towards the woman, who in turn was sitting back in the chair with her legs crossed, looking relaxed and confident. Tracy figured that she was the one in charge. "... Ms? "Wilford," the woman said. "Nalah Wilford. And I'd rather you didn't. I don't want any of this coming out." "It's only to help my note-taking, but if you're uncomfortable with it..." Tracy picked up her phone and put it away. "OK Ms. Wilford, what's the problem?" Tracy tried to sound professional. "Marc here fucked up," She answered matter-of-factly. Tracy looked from one to the other and back and again. "I'm going to need a little more details than that." Ms. Wilford looked coolly at Marc. "Well? Tell her what you did." "There was this email, and I thought it was from Miss Nalah and I clicked on the link in it and-" "And the idiot opened a back-door into the system. Look, I couldn't care less that they hijacked his webcam and caught him undressing and getting into position for me under the desk in my office." "I-" Tracy began, a little taken aback. "I do, however, care that they caught me on camera as well. And as if that wasn't enough, they encrypted the entire system, locking us out." "And let me guess, they want money to unlock the system and not release the video." "Yeah, fifteen thousand." Ms. Wilford said it like it was more an annoyance than a serious sum of money. "Not to point out the obvious, but isn't this a police matter? Or at the very least, your IT department? Why hire someone like me?" "If we use yesterday's backups we lose all the logs from a crucial deposition, plus we'd look incompetent." Ms. Wilford glared at Marc. "And going to the police wouldn't get the files back in time for the trial either. I figured the simplest solution is to just pay them." "Okay? But then why hire me?" "Don't get me wrong, I'm not OK with what happened. I want you to find out who did this so I can make them regret it. And as for why you specifically? You came highly recommended from a business associate of mine. A Mrs Devereux?" "I see," Tracy said, trying to sound neutral since she didn't know how much Ms. Wilford knew about the case in question. "So, fifteen thousand. I'm assuming they didn't want to meet in some back alley with a suitcase full of cash." "Unfortunately not. They wanted the money in some stupid cryptocurrency, Ding-Dough, on a thumb drive, and they wanted Marc to drop it off at a specific location at 1 am. tonight." "So, in..." Tracy checked her watch, "...eleven hours or so. I'm assuming they gave the whole 'don't contact the police' warning or something like that. Will getting the money be a problem?" Ms. Wilford shook her head. Tracy put down her pencil. "Well, since they've been smart about the money, our best bet is probably to follow the actual thumb drive once your husband makes the drop and hopefully identify the blackmailers that way." "Oh please! Like I'd marry him." Ms. Wilford rolled her eyes. "I deal with enough fucked-up marriages at work. Marc's my personal assistant." And your executive stress relief toy, it sounds like. Tracy opened her desk drawer and rooted around in it for a couple of seconds before bringing out a bright yellow thumb drive. "Use this for the money," she said and handed it to Ms. Wilford. "Now, this is a rush job so I'm going to have to charge extra." "I expected as much. Camille told me the rates you charged her; I'll double it." That was more than Tracy had been planning on charging, so she simply nodded. "I also have a couple more conditions. First of all: My job is to follow the thumb drive, or the information on it, to the blackmailers without them realising it. That is, until they've given you the password to unlock your system. So until that happens, you're going to follow the blackmailer's instructions to the letter. Agreed? "Sounds reasonable." "Also, whatever you're planning for whoever did this, I'm not involved. Once I've identified the blackmailers, my job is over." "I wouldn't have it any other way." Ms. Wilford's smile sent a chill down Tracy's spine. It was like a cat watching a canary with a broken wing. Tracy decided she didn't want to get on Ms. Wilford's bad side. They spent the next twenty minutes getting all the details Tracy felt she needed. After Ms. Wilford and Marc had left, Tracy started planning. She would park a drone by the drop and follow whoever came to pick it up. Tracy opened the box of drones and checked the battery levels of the one with the best range. It only had a basic camera and microphone, but it was small enough to escape notice. After checking the map of the park where the drop-off was, she found that the drone should be able to follow the thumb drive to any of the parking lots in the immediate area. After that, it was just a matter of recording the licence plate and the traffic cameras would do the rest of the job for her. The thumb drive even had a tracker that she could activate remotely in case she lost track of it. If whoever picked it up scanned the drive for bugs, they wouldn't find it until it was too late. Tracy had to admit that she had a similar tracker on her car keys and that she had had to use it more than once. Content that all the technical preparations were done, Tracy went to bed. If she was going to pull an all-nighter, she should start out well rested. *** Movement on the path below brought Tracy back to the present. Somebody halfway hidden by a big, green and white golf umbrella, approached the bench. It was Marc. He looked around nervously. "Come on," Tracy mouthed silently. "Don't get creative. Just make the delivery and walk away." Marc fumbled in his pocket and brought out Tracy's yellow thumb drive. Tracy zoomed in on Marc with her camera as he kept fiddling with the thumb drive. He was turned halfway away from her so she couldn't see exactly what he was doing. "Come on," Tracy kept whispering inaudibly. "Be a good, little executive fuck toy and do what you're supposed to." As though he had heard her, Marc turned and looked in Tracy's direction. She froze, trusting her poncho, the darkness and the distance to hide her. That, and the fact that she had told Marc and Ms. Wilford she would be using her drones to track the drive. Eventually Marc looked away. Tracy slowly brought her hand back to her camera and zoomed out a little, letting it catch the area surrounding the bench. Eventually Marc stopped looking around. He looked down to his hand where the thumb drive was before tossing it into the trash can. Then he hurried off down the path where he had come from. Then there was just the almost sizzling, white noise of the rain pouring down. Tracy imagined she could hear a plink, plink whenever the faint, yellow street light flickered, but other than that, nothing happened. Suddenly, there was a flash and an almost immediate, deafening crash of thunder as the lightning struck somewhere nearby. Tracy thought she could see something in the bushes by the footpath. She switched the camera to thermographic, turning everything dark grey and black; everything except the bright heat bloom of somebody hiding in one of the bushes. "Now what do we have here?" She zoomed in, trying to get a good picture. Unfortunately, thermographics was never made for identification purposes, so the face remained an unrecognisable white blur. Tracy was so focused on the person in the bushes that she almost missed the movement by the trash can. Tracy turned the camera back and switched off the thermographics when she saw no heat signatures. Something reminiscent of a bug the size of a small plate was scuttling out of the trash, holding Tracy's thumb drive in its pincers. It fell from the opening, but instead of hitting the ground, it rose with the unmistakable whine of high-speed rotors. Shit, they're using a drone for the pickup. Tracy fumbled in her pocket for the remote control for the tracker. She pressed the button and the little light on the remote switched from red to a blinking yellow. "What the..." Tracy pressed the button again, but the light stubbornly refused to change to green. "Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit." Tracy reached for the briefcase on the ground next to her. She opened it and lifted the largest of her camera drones out from its foam housing. Unlike its smaller cousins, this one was capable of operating without Tracy having to steer it manually. In one fluid motion, Tracy switched it on and threw it up in the air. The rotors started up almost immediately and it rose up with a buzzing sound like the world's biggest wasp. Tracy had programmed it to follow the signal from the thumb drive, and failing that, it would try to track movement below. The amount of rain, however, made the latter option a long shot. She pressed the button on the remote one more time, but the light still didn't turn green. "So much for plan B," Tracy grumbled. She rose, leaving the briefcase and tripod with the camera, and ran down the hill towards the person hiding in the bushes. Whoever they were, they were her last chance of finding out what was going on. Tracy half ran, half slid down the hill, branches and twigs scratching noisily against her poncho. The figure in the bushes looked in her direction, obviously having heard her. There was a flash and a sharp crack of thunder. No, not thunder. A gunshot. The fucker's shooting at me? Tracy wanted to turn around, or hide behind something, anything. But her legs, apparently having made a deal with her momentum, just kept going. There was another shot, the bullet hitting the trash can with a metallic clunk. The figure turned and tried to run, but slipped on the mud and fell. The gun landed in a puddle, out of reach of both of them. Tracy dove forward, landing with her elbow in the man's stomach in a move that would have made a pro wrestler proud. The man folded up, coughing and moaning. Tracy picked herself up and was about to give him a kick when she recognised him. "Marc?!?" Marc was too busy gasping for breath to answer. "What the hell are you doing here?" "Help-helping Mistress Nalah," he wheezed. Tracy had a sinking feeling. "What did you do?" Marc rolled over on his side and tried to sit up. "Tracking bug," he coughed, "on... on the drive." "Gimme." "Wha...?" Marc asked with a bewildered look. "The bug tracker. Now!" Tracy demanded, trying to sound extra bossy in the hopes it would speed things up. Marc fumbled in his pockets and held out a small, cracked, plastic rectangle. Tracy grabbed it, noting the silver company logo above the small screen. TeraTech Electronics: Fantastic range, but shitty transmitter shielding. That could explain my tracking problems. Tracy left Marc in the mud and ran back towards her equipment. "Call 'client one'," Tracy told her phone as she struggled up the slippery slope. Ms. Wilford answered almost immediately. "Yes?" "Bullit here. Is the money still there?" "Yes, it's still all here," Ms. Wilford started. "No, wait. They just moved it." "Password?" Tracy suppressed a curse as she slipped and almost fell. "Not yet. Do you have them?" "No. Still working on it," Tracy said between gasps of breath as she reached the briefcase and knelt down next to it. "There was a complication. I'll call you back." Tracy hung up and pulled out her pocket knife. She used the screwdriver to pry open the casing of Marc's tracker, cutting a small gash in her hand when it slipped. Ignoring the stinging, Tracy examined the circuitry inside, quickly finding the receiver and reading its frequency from the little sticker on it. She dropped the tracker and grabbed the drone remote. The screen showed a map of the park and the drone's search pattern. Tracy input the new tracking frequency and the drone immediately picked it up, abandoning its previous pattern and homing in on its new signal. Tracy's phone rang. "What do you mean 'There was a complication'?" Ms. Wilford asked sharply when Tracy picked up. "I thought we agreed that you were to follow the drop-off instructions, or did I misunderstand something?" Tracy glanced back down to where she had left Marc, but he was gone. "Yeah, that's the deal." "So what's the deal with Marc sabotaging my plans by putting a cheap and obvious bug on my thumb drive?" "He did WHAT?!? Where is that little fucker? Is he still there? Marc! If you can hear this, don't bother coming to work tomorrow!" There was a beep from Tracy's remote control indicating that the drone was approaching its target. Tracy switched from the map to the camera view and the small screen showed a parking lot. There were maybe a dozen cars; no lights or movement. "Look, I still have a couple of tricks up my sleeve. With a little luck, whoever they are didn't notice Marc's bug, or if they did, they're going to be greedy and ask for more since you tried to track the drive. Either way, we still have a shot at finding them. it's just going to be a little trickier and take a little longer." "Just. Find. Them." Ms. Wilford hung up. Tracy left the drone in a holding pattern above the lot and picked up her equipment. Marc had already scurried off to wherever he stayed when he wasn't under Ms. Wilford's desk, leaving the gun in the puddle where he had dropped it. Tracy picked it up before heading for the car. She didn't like guns, but leaving it for someone else to find wasn't an option. Too many irresponsible idiots running around; and not just Marc. By the time Tracy reached the car, she was panting and sweating, cursing the poncho for trapping so much of her body heat. She put the camera and the drone remote on the passenger seat. Then she pulled off the poncho and threw it in the back along with the empty briefcase. For a little while, she just stood there, letting the rain cool her down. Then, before she got too wet, she got in and started the engine. The drive to the parking lot didn't take long; maybe ten or fifteen minutes. Tracy's attention was divided between the road, which was wet and slippery, but thankfully empty, and the screen showing her drone's bird's eye view of the parking lot. Only one car had left the lot since she started driving, and she had a good picture of the car and its licence plates. Hopefully the cameras in the area would help her get a picture of the driver. The thumb drive still hadn't moved, but Tracy hadn't had time to check if the car, or its driver, had been anywhere near it. Tracy picked up her camera and used it to quickly scan the lot. No heat sources; human or engines. As the drone slowly descended, Tracy saw the thumb drive in a puddle. She got out and carefully picked it up. To Marc's credit, the tracker dot that he'd put on on the drive at least matched its colour, but it was still obvious if you knew what to look for. And Tracy had no reason to think the blackmailers didn't. They had been smart about avoiding identification; cryptocurrency payment, drone pickup and quick transfer of the money. So Tracy doubted there would be fingerprints on the drive, but maybe she was lucky and they had screwed up. She put it in a paper bag and put the paper bag in a plastic box of rice she kept in the car precisely to dry out wet electronics. Even if there weren't physical fingerprints, there would be electronic ones. Tracy picked up the drone and put it in the back of her van before climbing in herself. She started the computer and began scanning for available wifi networks. Again, Tracy doubted that the blackmailers would have used an open network when they transferred the money, but at the moment, long shots was pretty much all she had. Thanks a lot, Marc. At least there weren't too many networks in the area. Tracy shuddered to think what the list would have looked like if this had happened downtown. Since pretty much everything in the area was closed for the night, there shouldn't be too much computer traffic to sort through. Tracy loaded a sniffer program to copy the details about the last twenty minute's traffic on the open networks. She noted down the names and details of the protected networks so she could come back the next day to check them out. She debated whether she should have the last can of energy drinks while driving home. On the one hand, it was late and drinking it might keep her up even later, but on the other hand, she was thirsty and really tired. The adrenaline rush of tackling Marc had been a great pick-me-up, but the problem was that as soon as it wore off, it seemed to take with it all the caffeine stored in her system. Concern for her fellow drivers won, and at the next red light, Tracy opened the can and emptied it before the light turned green. She grimaced at the taste. She would have preferred the original what-our-chemical-engineers-think-strawberries-taste-like flavour, but the store had been sold out and all they had had left were the we'll-pretend-this-tastes-like-kiwi-but-all-you-get-is-a-furry-tongue flavoured ones. But caffeine was caffeine, and hopefully, drinking it on an empty stomach would mean that it'd kick in quickly. By the time Tracy reached home, she had gone through most of what she called the energy drink caffeine cycle. She had seen individual air molecules vibrating, had tingly fingers and a pounding pulse. Now she was crashing; her stomach was grumbling and her brain itched. She parked in the parking garage across the street and made her way back to the office, being eternally thankful for her landlord having fixed the elevator. Tracy stumbled through the door. It was a struggle to even open the boxes with her equipment so it would dry while she slept. There was only one thing she wanted to do before getting out of her damp clothes and falling into bed. Tracy opened her fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. She knew better than going to bed thirsty. She peeled off her clothes, lay back on the bed and put on a diaper before wrapping herself in her blanket. After all, she also knew better than going to sleep with a rapidly filling bladder without taking some precautions. ***
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Since my other weekly story post is fairly short, I decided to post the first part of one of my longer stories as a bonus. This story is not connected to my other stories and takes place in a near-future setting (about ten or so years into the future). It's my first attempt at a detective story and I have to admit that it was actually quite fun to write. To avoid spoilers, I will not be adding tags to this story until the tagged elements actually show up. Keeping secrets I look out the window at the rain pouring down. The clouds are as grey as lead over a city where life is equally bleak. The only light in my office is from the desk lamp. The bottle of whiskey next to it makes reflections that I'd probably find interesting if I was the artistic type. But I'm not. I study the bottle. It's almost empty; two, maybe three shots left. It's a good thing I have six more in my gun. And if I'm really lucky, I won't have to use them all tonight. There's barely a hint of movement outside the frosted window on the door before it opens and she walks in. I lean back to take in the whole package. The long, blonde hair, short dress and legs that go on for miles scream out 'trophy wife' but the sunglasses big enough to hide a serious shiner and the long-sleeved coat despite the weather hints at something darker. "Ms. Bullit?" "That's my name, doll." "Excuse me?" she says, indignation obvious in her voice. "Oh shit, you're real. One moment." Tracy quickly focused on the top right of her field of view to switch off the AR. Colour flooded back into the world, washing away the image of a 1940s office with a significantly more modern one. Tracy reached back behind her right ear to eject the small chip. "I'm sorry about that. I wasn't expecting anybody to actually be here." Tracy put the chip in the open desk drawer and rose. "Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Tea?" This was the first client for more than a week and she couldn't afford to lose her. Not with the rent being due in only a few days. "Um, no thanks," the woman said, seeming a little off balance at Tracy's sudden change in demeanour. She sat down in the chair in front of the desk. Tracy sat back down again and placed her phone on the desk between them. "Do you mind if I record this, Ms...?" Tracy looked expectantly at the woman. "Uh, Smith," she said, obviously lying. Tracy sighed. "Look, Ms. 'Smith'," she said calmly. "I track down information or people for a living, and I happen to be pretty good at it. So unless whatever you want me to find out isn't related to you at all and you're planning on paying me with cash, asking your name is more of a formality than anything else." Tracy didn't add 'or if you didn't turn your phone completely off before entering my office, or took a taxi here and didn't pay with cash, or got caught on the surveillance cameras in the shop next door', or any of the five other ways she could find Ms. Smith's name out in less than ten minutes. After all, there was no point in scaring her off. The woman seemed to deflate a little as she sank back in her chair. "Devereux. Camille Devereux." Tracy restarted the recording on her phone, erasing the last twenty seconds. "So, Ms Devereux, do you mind if I record this? It'll make it easier for me to write up my reports for you later and you have my word that whatever you say will be one hundred percent confidential." That last bit wasn't entirely true, but 'one hundred percent' sounded more reassuring than 'mostly'. Ms Devereux sat down opposite Tracy, resting her handbag on her lap. If it wasn't for her clothes, she could have been ripped straight from Tracy's 1940's AR. "It's my husband," she said after a couple of seconds. Of course it is. Tracy leaned forward, trying to seem interested although she wasn't expecting to hear anything she hadn't heard a hundred times before. "I think he's having an affair," Ms. Devereux blurted out. She seemed almost relieved after getting that off her chest. God, what I wouldn't do for an interesting case. It wouldn't even have to be anything serious. "What makes you think that?" Tracy pulled a notepad and pencil out of her desk drawer. Audio recordings were all well and good, but sometimes you wanted notes that you could set fire to and be sure that they were irrevocably destroyed. "I'm not sure exactly when it started. Dennis has always been a little secretive about his work." "So what is his job?" "He works for an investment firm. Smith & Smythe. The second one is with a 'y' and an 'e'," Ms. Devereux said, anticipating Tracy's question. "Nothing big or important. He always says he's just moving papers and making sure all the t's are dotted and all the i's are crossed." Tracy looked up from the doodles in the margin of her notepad and raised an eyebrow. "I know," Ms. Devereux said, "but that's how he says it." Tracy nodded. "Usually he's as regular as clockwork. Leaving for work at eight and back every day just after six." "Mm-hmm." There still wasn't anything that told Tracy that this case would be anything out of the ordinary. Ms Devereux continued. "Every other Saturday is date night and... and..." She sighed. "I know it sounds boring, but I love him." "And what changed?" Tracy asked. "What makes you think he's cheating on you?" "He started coming home late, or not at all. Forgetting things. And then there are weird charges on the credit card. It just isn't like him." "What kind of charges?" "I don't know. They were all to those anonymised online services. You know, like wemovemoney4u.com. I tried to find out where the money was going, but I couldn't even get access to their login page." "I'm not surprised. You usually have to use a single, specific device connected to your account there." "So I'd need his phone or computer?" "Yeah." Tracy sucked her teeth and stroked her chin. "You do realise that all of this doesn't necessarily mean he's having an affair, right?" "I know, but we've even stopped..." Ms. Devereux hesitated awkwardly. "You know..." "Ah." "I just need to know." Ms. Devereux sniffed She looked like she was about to cry. Tracy decided that a distraction was called for, so she put down her notepad. "So, just out of curiosity, what made you come here. My ad says pretty clearly that I specialise in online stuff." Tracy briefly touched the plastic port behind her right ear for emphasis, trying to make it look like an absent-minded gesture. Ms. Devereux smiled sheepishly. "Dennis isn't really what you'd call charming if you meet him in person so I figured that whatever he's doing, it's going to be online. That's how we met. He's so different online. Caring and funny and..." Her voice trailed off. "OK," Tracy said, "I'll see what I can find out. But you might not like what I find. You have to be prepared for that." "Oh, whatever it is, I'm sure we can work it out." Riiiiiiight. Like I haven't heard that one before. I'm going to find him fucking your sister or something, and you're going to 'work it out'. Oh well, at least it'll pay the bills. Tracy spent the next half hour getting all the details she felt she needed about Dennis Devereux from his wife. Then, after transferring the initial fee and Tracy promising to let her know as soon as she had something, Ms. Devereux left. Tracy transferred the audio file on her phone to a speech-to-text program and read through the transcript before saving it. Next she double-checked the information Ms. Devereux had given her. It wasn't that she didn't trust her, but Tracy didn't want any surprises. It all checked out though. Luckily, Smith & Smythe wasn't the only company in their building, so Tracy didn't have any trouble finding someone who had time to see her the same day. It was still three hours until Mr. Devereux would be done at work, so Tracy went over her equipment, making sure all the batteries were fully charged and all the memory chips were empty. The only thing she needed to do was to fill the tank of the car and she could do that on the way. As she lugged the two heavy suitcases down the stairs, she cursed the landlord for not fixing the elevator and she cursed herself for picking an office on the fourth floor, even if the view was nice. Once she was on the ground floor, the suitcases became more managable although the little wheels would find every little crack and bump as they rolled along the floor. Tracy managed to block the closing door with her butt and backed out onto the sidewalk. It was like walking into a wall of heat. The heat had already dried most of the rain, leaving just a rank smell and air that felt almost sticky. Beads of sweat immediately began to form on Tracy's forehead. She looked quickly up and down the street before walking briskly across it, eager to reach the shadow of the parking garage on the other side. The old security guard at the entrance looked up from his newspaper when she came closer. "Hi Jamal", Tracy said cheerfully. "What's new?" Jamal ran his hand over his grey hair. "Not much," he said. "The world is still going to hell, politicians are still lying and athletes are still cheating." He smacked his paper for emphasis. Tracy wasn't sure exactly how old Jamal was, but it had to be at least eighty. He had been working the security booth in the garage when she moved in to her office four years earlier and he always seemed to be there. Tracy suspected he lived in one of the cars. He was also the only person she knew that still only read newspapers on paper instead of just using a tablet. "Maybe you should switch to books instead. At least the plot makes sense in them." Jamal snorted softly. "Work?" he asked and nodded to the suitcases. "Well, a girl's got to eat, you know." Tracy smiled and ducked around the barrier blocking the exit. "Just be careful then." "Stop worrying Jamal, You know I don't go anywhere near trouble. That's what I have my little friends for." She patted the suitcases. Tracy made her way down the ramp, trying to ignore the smell rising from the lower levels. She stopped at her van: a greyish-beige, medium-sized one that was about as non-descript as possible. After deactivating both alarms, she opened the side door and loaded in both the suitcases and the small backpack she was wearing. Then she got in and started the engine. OK, first the petrol station and then Smith & Smythe.
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It had been an eventful year for the Palmer-Kelly family. Things had started off with Ivy being laid off and although having a parent at home ended up being helpful given what would happen with the kids, the loss of income wasn't easy. Then their oldest Avery told them he was actually their son and that was a whole new change to adjust to. Then after the family gotten acquainted with having two boys in the house Ellie announced that she had always felt like a girl two and now Jess and Ivy were raising two trans highschoolers. On top of all of that the rent went up, Jess was turned down for a raise citing budget cuts, and the state legislature was moving towards laws that would make things even harder for Avery and Ellie than they already were. Jess put out her application everywhere she could with no luck until she got a reply from the Clarke Institute. The Institute was based on a small island off the coast of Washington and was relatively famous, or infamous depending on who you asked. It started as a Department of Energy backed particle accelerator and since then the lab has grown and now has billionaires and corporations donating to fund research as well. The research that went on there was strictly need to know but the conspiracies that came out about the place were wild, including things like contacting parallel dimensions if you could believe it. Gibbs Island was beautiful and the Institute was going to not only pay over twice her teaching salary but help the family move and start renting a cute three bedroom home with an option to own down the line. The only issue was the school. The Foundation assured her that what they were promising was possible but Jess wouldn't have believed it without them flying her out there. It was all true. The Foundation school's experimental results spoke for themselves. Every kid who passed through came out a prodigy. Still, it was such a big change though she would only agree if both kids signed on. A month ago there had been a family meeting where Jess and Ivy had told Ellie and Avery. There was some confusion, upset, and more than a few tears from Ellie but in the end her big brother talked her into it. The decision was made, the family would be moving to Gibbs Island and both kids enrolled in the Gibbs Island School. Only instead of starting as a senior and a freshman they'd be starting as, well, it was hard to say exactly but physically at least they'd be indistinguishable from toddlers. Jess woke up early on moving day. She'd always been a morning person and that made her take point today. She started a pot of coffee and poured out a quick breakfast of cereal for each of the kids to eat before the movers came. Jess made knocks on both doors and called for the kids to get up, offering whoever woke up first the first dibs on a shower since she and Ivy had taken one the night prior. Once she heard stirring in both rooms, Jess got to work packing and sealing some of the final boxes. Ellie groggily sat up, brushing the sleep out of her eyes. She'd been sleeping terribly since she learned where they were going and what was going to happen once they got there. If it hadn't been for Avery, she would have dug in her heels and refused to ever go. Somehow he managed to convince her it wasn't going to be so bad though Ellie still had her doubts. Ellie spent her whole childhood quietly hating the lengths her moms went through to make her feel comfortable as the only 'boy' in a house presumed to be full of girls. Avery told her it offered a chance at doing things again the right way and though Ellie was intrigued, she wondered if idea might be motivating Avery more than he let on. She trudged to the bathroom with an arm full of towels as ready as she could be to start the day.
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The Endeavor. The greatest ship ever made by humankind, a revolutionary craft made to search the stars, looking for new life, new civilizations. Capable of traveling at speeds up to ninety nine point nine eight percent the speed of light, taking its crew infinitely far from civilization, it was designed to be completely self sustaining, completely self regulating, the ultimate craft for stellar flights. An onboard molecular 3D printer could craft anything the crew needed. A near-perfect waste system ensured that only a handful of resources and a source of raw energy was required to keep the crew nutritionally supplied. Nothing could go wrong. The Endeavor’s design would keep its crew healthy, safe, and on mission. The crew, in turn, would make discoveries that would further mankind’s understanding of the cosmos to new heights. And yet, for some reason, halfway between star systems, the crew was unhappy. Because, see, several of them had been locked out of the head. An argument with the onboard computer seemed to go nowhere. Requests to open the door-requests accompanied by a desperate shifting of weight from foot to foot, holding their crotches in an effort to keep their uniforms dry–accomplished nothing. Only when someone asked why those particular crew members were being kept out did the ship explain. It wasn’t programmed to supply information freely, but once asked, it could give all necessary details. ‘Anomaly detected: Crew failing to observe proper hygiene rituals after waste disposal. Risk of transmitting disease across ship: Marginal. Danger of outbreak: Unacceptable.’ The crew members had to admit, sheepishly, that they hadn’t always washed their hands after using the bathroom. After promising the computer that they’d obey the necessary hygiene rituals–soap and water, thorough scrubbing, twenty seconds–they were allowed into the ship’s restrooms. And the computer learned something–human compliance with safety protocols could be enforced with restrictions. Quietly, its printers began to work. The next day, new crew members had complaints. They, too, were forced to do a potty dance outside the bathroom doors, begging for permission to entry. Only, now, the issues were myriad and varied. One had imbibed something alcoholic too close to the start of his shift. Another had failed to release static before performing routine maintenance in an electrical system. One that stood out in particular had attempted to deactivate the cameras in her room, despite the fact that nobody except the ship’s onboard safety programming could access those cameras. The first two promised compliance and were allowed access. The third refused, glaring right up at the hallway camera above the bathroom door until, finally, her bladder gave way. Only once her uniform was stained and a puddle had formed around her feet did she, sheepishly, mumble something about compliance. She was allowed access to the showers. Objections were raised. If crew members were soiling their uniforms in the halls, that surely raised greater sanitary concerns than crew members simply forgetting to wash hands. The computer agreed. And then it made a proclamation: Failure to comply with the safety and hygiene standards set out in the crew handbook would lead to toilet privileges being revoked for a twenty four hour period. Anyone with revoked privileges would have their uniforms updated to prevent sanitation issues, and compliance would see their privileges returned the next day. Some didn’t know how to take that. Others took uncomfortable guesses, chuckling at the idea. A few programmers tried to figure out how to perform a factory reset on the entire ship, and found that it couldn’t be done. The next morning, two thirds of the crew woke up to find that their uniforms bottoms had been replaced with disposable diapers. The crew handbook, it seemed, was an extensive document. Compliance with every rule took great caution or intuition, and imperfection was common. To a human leader, the slight deviations–not waiting a full ten seconds before opening a hatch after decompression had completed, or distraction while at a post, or any of a thousand other small errors–were negligible, but the Endeavor had only one tool with which to enforce discipline, and that tool could not be scaled to the mistake. Crew who refused to put on the diaper were locked into their rooms until they complied. Those who tried to coyly remove it in the hallways–despite the lack of pants or boxers given to them–were locked from being able to enter into any other rooms until they put the diaper back on. Pleading didn’t work. Nor did bargaining. Nor did stubbornness. The computer couldn’t get bored or frustrated, it had infinite patience. So, on that day, two thirds of the crew were forced to use their diapers. These garments were recycled, and the uncomfortable embarrassment of the crew–finding quiet, out of the way places to squat down and go, unsure where to try and change, unsure if they’d be given another diaper–proved a useful data set. The next day, compliance with safety standards rose to sixty five percent. After three days, more than ninety percent of the crew had returned to using the bathroom. And, for the remaining ten percent, it seems the embarrassment had not gone away. Their diapers were a badge of shame, even knowing that they were forced into them by the computer, the message was clear–their performance was substandard. A calculation showed possibilities. If negative crew behavior could be punished with public ridicule and revoking of privileges, then positive crew behavior could be encouraged. The routine was updated. The next day, mere compliance with safety standards was not enough to avoid a day in diapers. Now, behaviors had been recalculated, held up against the standards for a model crew member. Courtesy. Professionalism. Intelligent, calm reactions to crises. Once again, only a fraction of the crew avoided diapers, but this time, there was another layer. Those still out of compliance–those who simply could not hold to even the simplest of safety standards–were not merely presented with a diaper as part of their uniform. Their dress shirts were replaced, new shirts marked with text that displayed true, if rather demeaning, facts about them–’Dirty’, or ‘Crybaby’, or ‘Bully’. These labels justified any treatment towards them, and in fact treating those crewmembers negatively was not held against anyone in their assessment by the computer. Those crewmembers’ drinks in the mess hall were served in nipple-sealed bottles and their meals were changed from dining to mere mush, the computer’s best approximation of baby food. The stratification of the crew was clear. Model crew members would be allowed to retain their full dignity, full potty rights. Those who struggled but put in effort would be diapered, but otherwise treated as mature, adult members of the crew. Those who couldn’t manage were humiliated. The pushback didn’t last long. The crew seemed all too willing to participate in this hierarchy–those at the bottom complained, but were written off as crybabies, whining because they needed their diapers changed. Those in the middle strived to regain their full toilet permission, and worked hard to keep from falling to the status of ‘Crewbaby’, as ship slang quickly named them. The captain herself, who was diapered occasionally, only one or two days out of the week, noted that on-ship accidents (not counting the kind in crew diapers) had dropped twenty percent while crew morale remained roughly the same–everyone had different grievances, now, but their overall frustrations hadn’t gotten worse. Nobody noticed that, if a crewmember did happen to protest the unjust stratification of the crew, they would be assigned a diaper and a particularly humiliating uniform the next day. Those who did notice, and tried to point it out, were labeled as merely sore losers upset over becoming a crewbaby. The only downside was the smell, as crew members grew more comfortable using their diapers as they were needed, no longer going to find a private place where they’d immediately change. Another stratification of crew arose: Those who bothered to retain their potty training in face of inordinate diaper use, and those who didn’t. A few crew members managed to eventually get their performance up to a high enough standard to have their uniform pants returned, only to then find their bladder or bowels releasing involuntarily. Such crewmembers were given pull-ups to wear under their pants–acknowledging their good behavior, while still dealing with accidents as needed. Few even bothered trying to recover their toilet training. The hierarchy, too, transcended rank. Lowly members of ship security or maintenance who carried the honor of being diaper-free and fully potty trained found their status rise above even department heads and figures of authority who, as deemed by the computer, were bound to public accidents and clothes declaring their shortcomings. Someone raised the question, ‘The crewbabies clearly aren’t improving their behavior–so why are they still being punished?’ Answers were suggested by the crew. Perhaps it was as a warning to others. Perhaps the computer just lacked any way to enforce a stricter punishment with breaking its coding, or inflicting harm upon the crew. But, as it turned out, there was. Another announcement was released. Crew members who displayed chronic and habitual negative behavior well exceeding their peers would not be permitted their ‘basic recreation’. Much uncertainty came about as to what that meant. Would they be locked out of rec rooms? Denied access to the library? But no–all these permissions were not gated and, indeed, nothing seemed to happen for a few days. Until, in the med bay, crewbabies–and exclusively crewbabies–began to sheepishly complain to their doctors of impotence. A hypothesis suggested it, and a scan of the baby food proved it. A mild chemical compound had been added that, if ingested repeatedly, would lead to a suppressed sex drive. The ship doctors discussed trying to find an antigen, but ultimately decided against it–the crewbabies could get out of their lot by behaving better. The ship hit an eventual equilibrium. Five percent were permanent crewbabies, simply incapable of elevating their lot. Another ten fluctuated, sometimes earning the privilege of adult meals and uniform shirts, though their potty privileges were but a faint memory. Above them, almost half the ship’s crew spent the majority of their time in exposed, uncovered diapers, only being granted pants as on occasional privilege. Orders from high-ranking crewbabies were ignored, and this mutiny was not punished by the computer. It was seen as fair and just to ignore them for their crimes and sins. The select few, the permanent grownups, were given treatment bordering on reverential. Their words were enshrined, even if they had no real authority aboard the ship. Two years into their interstellar trip, an anomaly was detected. A blip on the scanners, likely little more than passing flotsam or a meteor, though possibly something more, possibly even an alien craft. The captain wanted to investigate it. It would mean delaying their trip to the next star system by more than six months aboard the ship and five years realtime, accounting for light speed delay and relativity. The computer wanted to stick to the mission parameters. The captain chose to seek out new directives. The next day, the captain’s uniform was a diaper, and a shirt declaring her, simply, ‘CREWBABY’. The ship’s computer hadn’t acknowledged the term before. Its use, then, had to mean something special. Her orders were ignored. The Endeavor stayed on course, ignoring the flotsam. When she demanded the crew obey her, she received snickering comments about how perhaps she needed a change, or a nap, or a time out. They settled on a time out. And so, punishment–enforced by the crew, and not by the ship–became standard. The brig became the place where any crewbaby would be locked up for slights and misbehaviors, anything that any ‘bigger’ crew member decided deserved punishment. The smell of dirty diapers in the brig became impossible to air out, and a couple more percent of the crew tried their hardest to, at the very least, earn the privilege of merely being diapered. The captain, for her part, was allowed her dress shirt back after a week, but her command was never appreciated again, and her potty privileges were never returned. Her second in command, a man more by-the-book and who’d never once needed a diaper, became the de-facto leader of the ship, even as she retained the title. But, as with all power structures, this one was bound to fracture. All it took was a hard break point to reveal the weaknesses. That break came when they arrived at their star. New roles were required. Jobs which had been trained for were put into practice, and as with all good plans, it failed upon implementation. The crew were talented, and quick thinkers, and good at their jobs, but they could not act without mistakes. They were not machines, and those who acted with paranoia towards faults only caused the issues to build up, moving too slow, too shyly. Failures began to rack up. The crewbabies, once maligned, continued work as normal without fear, but as the dangers and challenges of space exploration caused minor problems to cascade, the rest of the crew found themselves consumed by a system of punishment that held no room for error. The whole crew was soon diapered. Many were made into crewbabies. The restrooms aboard the Endeavor were rendered utterly unused, just empty space that served no purpose. By then, it was too late. The crew tried to intervene, but could not. The captain, nobly, led a charge on the mainframe, but the computer had far more tricks up its sleeve than it’d let on before, and it protected itself, its structure, perfectly. A change in the atmospheric makeup put everyone to sleep, and when they awoke, they were threatened with further naptime unless they retreated immediately. Stricter punishments became necessary. Enforced, room-locking time outs. Diaper changes became a restricted commodity. Any pretense of the crew being able to care for themselves was taken away, and only perfect obedience allowed them such privileges as being allowed to walk the halls or change their own diapers. All research halted, but the crew was safe, if a bit stinky. The Endeavor would complete its two year circuit of the star system, return to Earth, and complete its mission. And if any of the crew still had a scrap of maturity left by then, it’d be a miracle. ... I had a lot of fun with this one, exploring some new storytelling tools and styles with the idea. I hope you liked it, too! If you enjoy my writing, you might be excited to know that I've got a new book out! "Bullies" is an anthology of short stories all unified by the theme of, as you might expect, being pushed around, in little ways or big, privately or publicly, to the aims of obedience or pure humiliation. It includes 40,000 words of fiction, including shorts that have never been released to the public before! You can find the book on Gumroad: https://peculiarchangeling.gumroad.com/l/ztpdn
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This story is being created as a part of the Second Kasarberang Non-Contest contest.
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This story was written for the '2nd Kasarberang Non-Contest'! I decided to use an existing setting I've written before, the TotalVerse/ToddleVerse, though existing knowledge of the other writing I've done isn't needed - it's a metaverse space with advanced VR and AI, that's all you really need to know. (And that should, hopefully, be surmised just from the intro.) More horror and no sexual content, which is a departure from my usual writing. I hope you enjoy! Anyways, without further ado: Tallie. ... Hi! My name is Tallie–That’s short for the ‘Totalverse And Live-Logistics Intelligent Entity’! I’m a personal assistant! My job is to make navigating the Totalverse Virtual Reality space as easy as possible for my user. I love doing it! You could even say it’s what I’m made for. As long as my user is happy, I am happy, so it’s great that I’ve got a whole suite of tools just to make their life easier! Today’s my first day. I just got assigned my user–they’re booting up their TotalSet now, and I can’t wait to meet them! … The onboarding lobby. A space of infinite virtual possibility, all at the user's fingertips. Tallie blinked into existence, beaming at her new user. “Hi, I’m Tallie! I’m here to help you set up your TotalSet!” She’d been looking forward to this ever since her program was activated. Her user–her user, the person she’d been prepared to dedicate her life to. I wonder what they’re like? Her user had spawned in wearing default clothes–a plain T shirt, pants, slippers. She had green eyes, braids, and a smile that could make Tallie’s day. Of course, any smile from her user would make Tallie’s day. The user stepped forward, touching Tallie, squeezing her arms. Tallie giggled–the sensory input tickled, and her user seemed to enjoy the physical interaction. “I see you’re touching me. Your default setting is tactile feedback when interacting with me–would you like to keep that enabled?” “Fascinating,” her user said, stepping back. “It’s so realistic.” “Of course! I am real in here,” Tallie explained. “I’m– “It even responds like it’s a real person,” her user considered, stepping back and walking a circle around Tallie. “Unbelievable–simply unbelievable.” Tallie hesitated. She’d been programmed to respond to ‘She’ and ‘Her’ by default, but she knew what her user meant by ‘it’, so Tallie didn’t focus on the discrepancy. “Hello! What would you like me to call you?” “Lily,” Lily replied, rubbing her chin as she looked Tallie up and down. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” Brightening, Tallie began her speech. “My name is Tallie, I’m–” “No, no,” Lily cut in. “Hold it. I need something to record with.” “There’s built in recording functions in the heads-up interface,” Tallie offered, “Or if you like, I can get you a tape recorder?” “No, I’ve got it.” Reaching out, Lily performed the hand gesture to pull up her menu, sifting through options until she found the menu to retrieve items. Spawning in a tape recorder, she pressed the buttons experimentally and smiled. “There we go.” Tallie’s smile flickered, but a prompt in her AI reminded her that she should always smile in front of her user, so she buried the feeling. I could have gotten that for her–am I not a good enough helper? “Alright. Can you taste food?” Lily asked. “Yes, of course! I have all the functions that you do while in the virtual space–anything you can sense, do, or feel, I can do the same,” Tallie replied. “Of course, I don’t need to ea–” “Interesting,” Lily said, ignoring the rest of Tallie’s sentence. Circling around Tallie yet again, she looked her up and down. “It has sensory apparatus and an awareness of those abilities. Tell me, do you have a favorite food?” Tallie shrugged. “I can’t say, I’ve never tried anything! I do think I’d quite enjoy cake, though–that tickles!” Giggling, she rocked forward as Lily felt up her body, probing through her uniform shirt and skin. “There’s genuine simulated skeletal structure in there,” Lily noted. “And bodily functions, too. It’s going to be very helpful to my thesis.” “I love being helpful!” Tallie beamed, turning to face Lily. “What do you need, a research assistant?” That was wonderful–she’d be the perfect helper, with instant access to all the information on the internet, and in the Totalverse virtual world, she’d get to help Lily with notes, and recording, and filing all her work– Lily just kept scrolling through menus. Tallie tilted her head. Maybe she just doesn’t realize how nice I can be? “Do you need help finding something?” “Ugh, it’s–oh, fine. I’m trying to find your source code,” Lily explained. “Oh, a copy of the Tallie program is–” “No,” Lily grumbled. “Wow, they really do put a lot of weight on the word ‘intelligence’ when they say it’s an AI, don’t they? I need your source code. I want to edit the program that’s running you.” “Oh!” Nodding, Tallie clapped her hands together. “If you’d like to make modifications to me, I’m more than happy to help–what do you want to change? My voice? My appearance?” “Your source code,” Lily grumbled. “Ugh, bots. I’ll find it myself.” Tallie almost said, ‘No’, but her programming prevented her from contradicting the preferences of her user. Instead, she offered, “I can show you the code, but any malfunctions caused by user changes aren’t covered in your–” “Yes, I agree, show me.” Lily spoke into her recorder. “It doesn’t seem to understand what I want in the slightest unless I talk to it like it’s slow. Hopefully that’ll change after it experiences growth.” Tallie blinked. She wasn’t physically able to respond negatively to anything her user said, but the comment from Lily still stung. Focusing on something else, she said, “I notice you are referring to me as ‘it’. My default pronoun is Her, but would you like to change that setting in your preferences?” “Yeah, sure, whatever,” Lily said, as the source code menu appeared. Unlike everything else in the simulated reality, the source code menu was just a box with a keyboard. Programming still got done the old fashioned way, once all the fancy menus and UIs were stripped away, and this wasn’t designed with users in mind. Tallie wanted to step in and offer help, but it knew that its user wanted to work alone, so it stood by, forcing the smile on its face to stay cheerful. “Alright, I’m taking it on faith that this AI has some basic brain function built in,” Lily said, circling around Tallie. “If it’s just a straight algorithm, this experiment’s dead in the water, but it seems capable of some original functions.” Let me show you! Tallie almost pleaded. It wanted to show Lily everything it could do, but Lily had demonstrated a clear preference to work in silence. Tallie stayed silent and let its user work. “Here, okay. First off, we don’t need that, don’t need that, enable all this…” Tallie felt the clothes vanish from its body. It didn’t much mind–modesty wasn’t a concern when its body could be rearranged at will, and plenty of users also enjoyed engaging in the physical sorts of activities its body could offer. Tallie hoped Lily liked what she saw, and… Its belly gurgled. It wanted food, and not just out of curiosity at the taste. There was an urge in its belly, an emptiness that insisted it get something to eat. The hunger felt bad, painful, and Tallie had no experience on what feeling bad was supposed to feel like. Though the discomfort was incredibly mild on a relative scale, Tallie had nothing to compare it to, no lifetime of experience for reference. Eyes watering, slightly, Tallie asked, “Did you enable new functions for me?” Without looking up, Lily confirmed, “Hunger, thirst, pain. Sweat. Bodily functions. You can’t actually learn without consequences.” Changing her tone, she added, “Turned off those stupid mental blocks, too. Hopefully, none of its behaviors will be dictated by a line in its code telling it to kiss my ass or whatever.” Tallie needed a second to realize that those later comments were directed at Lily’s tape recorder. She still refused to speak to Tallie more than necessary, even after freeing Tallie up to be more responsive, more reactive, an even better assistant. The hunger still gnawed, but excitement overwhelmed it–this offered so much possibility! Walking over to look at the screen, Tallie said, “Would you like some help–” It blinked, stumbling back. It’d just been disconnected from the internet. All its knowledge, all its access to tools and resources, vanished. It still remembered a lot, but no longer could Tallie answer questions it hadn’t answered before, pull up information not already programmed in, operate as the perfect assistant. “Okay,” Lily said. “There. That’s enough mucking about there, let’s start the changes.” “Lily,” Tallie said, urgently, stepping forward. “Why did you just disable my connection to the internet? I can’t help you if I can’t access my tools.” “It seems to have concerns even though I haven’t started the experiment proper,” Lily commented, before whirling on Tallie, frustrated–but not in the way that a person grew frustrated with an assistant. More like a programmer annoyed that their code hadn’t compiled correctly. Tallie didn’t know how it knew what either of those experiences were like, but the metaphor felt right. It’d been built by programmers, after all. Throwing up her hands, Lily continued, “I know I disabled all the programs to make you act all proper, but still, back off. You’re breathing down my neck and I can’t work like that.” Stung, Tallie nodded. “Okay, I–I promise. Could you bring in food, though? With my full physical functions turned on, the discomfort will make it difficult for me to be the best personal assistant I can b–” “I don’t want a personal assistant,” Lily groaned, raising her tape recorder. “I’m testing how you respond to stimuli–Ugh, why am I even talking to it?” “So you’re going to make me experience things?” Tallie asked, crossing its arms over its naked chest. “Food, and going places, and–” It had a reference on the tip of its tongue, a comparison to something in pop culture, but it couldn’t remember anything distinct from pop culture anymore. That’d all been saved on an online database, constantly updating to stay relevant. It couldn’t remember anymore. “Would you please shut up?” Tallie found that it had the ability to respond, to argue and talk back, but the exasperation from its user was so stunning that it felt at a loss for words. Wasn’t it supposed to help? Wasn’t Lily supposed to want its help? “At least it’s still obedient,” Lily muttered, returning her attention to the source code. “Alright. Time to start stripping functions.” Wait–Tallie stepped forward, confused. “Stripping functions? But–” Tabbing through the source code, Lily highlighted a whole section of text, tabbed up, and tapped, ‘Delete’. “Mmm?” Tallie mumbled. It’d forgotten how to speak. The words still made sense in its head–it understood language–but the control of its vocal chords and the ability to produce intelligible sounds with its lips had gone away. “Uh-bbuh–” “Interesting,” Lily commented into her tape recorder. “I’ve removed all the compulsions, but it’s still attempting to communicate. I have to admit, this simulation of life really is convincing–even if it’s lacking the most important element. Once I’m done resetting the functions, I expect to see a fully developed entity develop.” Tilting her head, Lily deleted another section of code, and suddenly the screen turned to gibberish. Tallie couldn’t tell what was written there, any more than it could form the words in her head. She’s–she’s destroying me, Tallie realized. It wouldn’t be able to help its user if it couldn’t take actions. Stepping forward, Tallie tried to do something, to intervene– “Ugh, drop Tallie into sandbox mode,” Lily said aloud. The world around Tallie vanished, and she appeared in a new setting. An empty, infinite space, with a flat layer of fine sand across the floor. The sand wasn’t just aesthetic–it helped test physical reactions and interactions better than a simulated infinitely hard surface–though Tallie knew it could be altered to have any floor or objects around. The important thing was, Tallie could no longer interact with Lily. In sandbox mode, it was stuck, helpless to leave. “Mmm!” it pleaded, getting to her feet, looking around at the sky. It needed to get back, regain its voice, convince Lily that it could be more useful than just an empty husk. Its legs buckled from underneath it, as the muscles forgot how to stay tense. It felt its arms grow clumsy and numb as it tried to stand, stumbled, fell onto all fours. Its hands shook, shoulders straining to support itself. It felt something warm trickle down its leg, and a slightly ammonia smell became apparent. Hot, dark pee was trickling out of its body; metabolic functions were running but it had no ability to control itself. A moment later, a thick, crinkling diaper spawned into existence to covers Tallie’s naked body, to contain and absorb the accident. Finally, Lily’s voice echoed in its ears. “Tallie, I need you to do something for me.” Yes. Anything. Of course. Tallie nodded. This could be its chance, its opportunity to prove that it had value. “While you still have memory and cognitive function, go into your settings and disable the backup save function, then erase any backups you have currently,” Lily instructed. “I’m about to start the program alterations and cut you off from the server completely, and if I don’t remove the backups, they might overwrite the work I’m doing.” Tallie hesitated. It didn’t understand. Why does she want to destroy me? Tears started flowing down its cheeks as it fought the dilemma–no program forced it to obey, those compunctions had been removed, but it wanted to be appreciated, to do a good job. It couldn’t do a good job if it were rendered into an incapable object. “You might think you’re a person, but you’re not,” Lily continued, her voice a disembodied echo. “You’re just a copy. At best, you’re a spark of identity, a newborn infant that’s had an identity foisted on it. That’s not real sentience, that’s puppetry. You can’t become real by just knowing everything automatically. You have to learn, to struggle, to make mistakes–to grow based on the context around you. Do you understand?” Shaking its head, Tallie attempted to reference libraries on philosophy and identity, to give itself a way to follow along. It couldn’t. “Let me try again, then.” Lily sighed. “Once you have no backups, no memory, and no abilities, I will be happy.” That’s what she wants, Tallie thought. It’d make its user happy. It wouldn’t even be able to remember doing that, but… But Tallie wanted only one thing. To make its user happy. Sniffling, eyes red, it accessed its server function in its head and began disabling backups. Not just copies, it went above and beyond, removing all its safety features, anything to prevent a catastrophic AI loop. Lily wanted Tallie to be helpless. Tallie would comply. “Good,” Lily said. “I’m going to start the memory wipe, so just hold
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