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Showing posts with label Human World. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Human World. Show all posts

Saturday 24 February 2024

Guy's Hospital (Excerpt)

HOSPITAL WARD

GUY lies in a coma. Another bed is occupied by GUNTER, who appears to be in a similar unconscious state. The room is quiet, save for the soft beeping of Guy’s heart monitor. JANE enters.

JANE:

Guy, my darling Guy, it’s me... Jane. I’m here, just like I promised I’d be, every day, until you wake up. How are you today? I won’t pretend it’s been easy, Guy. Each morning, I rise. Because I have to, because I choose to, because I believe—hope—that one day, you’ll come back to me. But I can’t help but feel that with each passing day, a part of me is withering away, rotting in this chair. The loneliness, Guy, it’s indescribable. The silence echoes in the emptiness of our home, in our bed, where I lie awake, yearning for your warmth. I’m trying to be strong... but some days, I’m just pretending, hoping somehow to make it through to the next morning. I’ve struggled with fear, with separation, with the daunting reality of facing life without you. There were days I felt so lost that I couldn’t see a way out. So here, in this quiet, I speak my apologies into the space between us, hoping somehow, they reach you. I have to believe that somewhere, beneath the stillness, you can feel me, hear me; that you remember the moments we shared together.

(to the fourth wall)

A driver collided with our world. Guy, my husband, managed the extraordinary feat of stepping off the pavement at just the wrong moment. A car, too fast, too distracted, turned our life into this drama. Only, in our version, the hero doesn’t wake up with a start. No, my Guy is more the silent type these days. The doctors use terms like “traumatic brain injury” as if I might find comfort in the certainty of a label. I don’t. I find comfort in talking to Guy about the mundane; did he know the Hendersons’ cat finally got stuck in their own tree? Irony, Guy loves irony. I sit with him, you know, every day. I read to him, talk to him about everything and nothing. I tell him about the Jammie Dodger shortage at the supermarket as if it’s headline news. And sometimes, I swear, I see a flicker, a sign he’s there, trapped in his own head, screaming about the absurdity of Jammie Dodger shortages in supermarkets. I’ve found myself bargaining with every deity I can think of, promising a lifetime of good deeds for a single moment of clarity from him. I’d even tell him the truth about the Christmas vase from Aunt Muriel he thought was lost. I’ve become quite the conversationalist, speaking into the void, filling the silence with words. Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You talk, even if it’s just to the walls, because the alternative is silence, and the silence is unbearable. And maybe, just maybe, my words will be the lifeline that guides him back. Until then, I’ll be here, talking even when I’m not sure if anyone is listening.

(to Guy)

Remember the time you surprised me with that picnic in the living room because the park was closed? You had it all laid out, the blanket, the basket, even those little candles you were so proud of finding. We made a toast to indoor adventures and drank until we could barely move. I was rummaging through the attic last Tuesday. You remember, our shared vault of “we’ll sort it later” treasures and I found an old picture of us in Brighton. I remember we were seeking out the best fish and chips. We found it, though, didn’t we? Tucked away in that little alley, the one that smelled of salt and vinegar. You said it was the best you’d ever had. I agreed, but between you and me, it was being with you that made them taste so good. We spent that night walking along the beach, sharing our dreams under the stars. There we were, utterly lost but utterly content, discovering hidden corners of the place and each other. Every word came straight from your heart promising a lifetime of adventures together. And then there was the rain. We danced in it, like two fools pretending to be Gene Kelly. You spun me round and round until we collapsed, laughing, into that massive puddle on the promenade. We were drenched, utterly soaked, and happy. But here’s the secret I’ve never shared: as we walked back along the beach, hand in hand, I found a small, smooth stone. It was nothing special, just a piece of quartz, but it sparkled in the night. I slipped it into my pocket, a solid piece of that perfect, fleeting moment. I’ve kept that stone with me every day since. It’s here with me now. These shared moments remind me of us, of who we are beyond this... silence. So, I’ll keep sharing these memories with you, my love. Even if you can’t respond, I know you’re listening. These stories, our stories, they’re the breadcrumbs leading you back home to me. And I’ll be here, waiting, reminiscing, until we can create new memories together again.

(to the fourth wall)

I can’t do this. I thought I could, but every day feels like I’m sinking further and there’s no one to pull me out. I tell myself, “just get through today,” but the days stretch on, endless, each one a mirror of the last. And Guy, my dear Guy, is trapped in his silent world, unreachable, leaving me to navigate this darkness alone. Everyone says, “you’re so strong,” “you’re doing so well.” But they don’t see this, do they? The nights spent in tears, the days filled with a hollow emptiness that consumes everything. Strength? It’s a façade I hide behind because the truth is too much to bear. I miss him. Not just the man he was before the accident, but the life we shared, the future we dreamed of. And the silence. It’s suffocating. I used to relish moments of quiet, but now it’s a constant reminder of his absence. I talk to him, to the empty space on the sofa he once filled, but my own voice is a reminder of how alone I am. They say grief is the price we pay for love, but no one warns you about the weight of it, how it can crush you, leave you gasping for air in the middle of the night.

(to Guy)

Dinner for one, a solo walk, and lying next to an empty half of the bed are normal for me now. Although hope and despair have become my new housemates. Hope wanders about with a suitcase full of “what ifs” and “soon maybes,” while despair tends to slouch in the corner, mumbling “what’s the point?” into his tea. They don’t get on, you see. I’m caught in the middle. Oh yes, and guilt. Every time I laugh or enjoy a moment of sunshine, guilt is there, reminding me, “Should you be feeling this when Guy is lying there?” But in the midst of this crowd, there’s love. It’s what turns my feet towards the hospital each day, even when hope and despair are having one of their squabbles. And when you wake, we’ll laugh about this, won’t we? About how I became such good friends with loneliness, hope, despair, and guilt. But mostly, how love never once left the room. As for me, apparently I’m glue that holds things together. Or so I’ve been told. Glue that feels decidedly less adhesive these days. All the while, cooking meals that go uneaten and maintaining routines that feel increasingly hollow. But that’s okay, because this is all an opportunity for “personal growth”, or so said a rather nice counsellor chap with a bald head. Personal growth, now there’s a term that always seemed a bit lofty to me, something for self-help books and weekend retreats. Yet, here I am, a veritable case study. It’s funny, isn’t it? Not “ha-ha” funny, more like “Alanis Morissette ironic” funny, how personal growth’s most profound lessons are often those we’d never choose. I’ve become somewhat of a philosopher, you see. Not by choice, but by circumstance. Contemplating the nature of existence between hospital visits and microwave meals. I’ve wrestled with questions I never thought to ask, faced fears I didn’t know I had. And in the midst of it all, I’ve discovered strengths - like being able to cry on a crowded bus without garnering too much attention. I’ve also mastered the art of solitude. Except, of course, being near the ticking of that dreadful cuckoo clock you brought back from Geneva. I’m convinced it speeds up just to taunt me. But it’s not all existential dread and ticking clocks. No, this journey’s had its share of revelations. Like learning that love isn’t just a feeling; it’s an action, a choice made in the quiet moments, in the steadfast refusal to give up hope. So here I stand, or rather sit, a somewhat unwilling pilgrim on the path to self-discovery. I’ve learned to navigate the world on my own, to find joy in the small victories, and to keep talking, even when it feels like I’m only speaking to the walls. Because one day, I hope, you’ll talk back. And I’ll keep dreaming, for both of us, until you’re here to dream with me once more. Our future, now I see, is not a place or an event. It’s us, simply being, together. A future where every day is an adventure because it’s shared with you. Perhaps our grandest adventure lies not in the peaks we conquer but in the valleys we navigate together, in the everydayness of our shared life. So, I will dream a different dream for us. One where our future is not measured by the stamps in our passports but by the mornings we wake up next to each other, by the nights we fall asleep mid-conversation. Though lately, it’s been more of a monologue than a dialogue. Guy, bless you, you haven’t been much for conversation since the accident. But does that stop me? Of course not. I’ve become quite adept at talking to myself. With you listening, of course, my darling.

(to the fourth wall)

I tell him everything and anything. How the azaleas he planted are blooming, or how Mrs. Jenkins next door has taken to singing opera in the early hours. It’s our little soap opera, broadcast directly to his bedside. I’d like to think he’s entertained, that somewhere in the silence, he’s laughing with me. But it’s not just the trivialities of our days I share with him. It’s the “I love yous”, the “we miss yous”, the “please come backs”. It’s the reassurance that no matter how long this nightmare lasts, I’ll be here, making sure the love finds its way to him. And it’s not a solitary endeavour, oh no. The outpouring of love and support has been overwhelming. Cards, calls, visits, each a lifeline, a chorus of voices joining mine in this one-way conversation. It’s heartening, really, how it can take tragedy to draw out such warmth. They say people live on in our memories, and I find that to be painfully, beautifully true. Guy’s here with me, not just in this room, surrounded by machines and the antiseptic smell of hospitals, but in who I am. Our stories, our memories, they’re what bind us, weaving the fabric of our life together. And so I talk to him, recounting our shared past, our dreams, our arguments over trivialities, as if by sheer longing, I can bridge the gap between us.

(to Guy)

Here in this silence, I’m confronted by words unsaid, of arguments paused mid-breath. Our last argument, the one before… this, it lingers. I argue with shadows, defend myself to the echoes. It’s a peculiar form of madness, isn’t it? Quarrelling with a memory. How do I argue with a man who can no longer answer back? How do I resolve conflicts that have become monologues? I believe in us, in the “us” that survives beyond the harsh words and cold silences. I don’t know how to do this without you, Guy. They say time heals, but it feels more like I’ve become used to the pain. You know, I keep asking myself, would I be here, if things had ended differently between us? If we had let go when every argument felt like the last straw, if we had agreed that maybe love wasn’t enough to fix what was broken? And now, here I am, clinging to your hand, praying for a miracle that feels like it might be too late to even want. The guilt... it’s crushing me. Because part of me wonders if I’m here just trying to make up for all the ways I failed you. I’m tired, Guy. Tired of carrying this guilt. How I stormed out, leaving so many angry words hanging in the air between us. If I had known it would be the last time, would I have stayed? Or tried harder to understand, to forgive? But here I am, every day and night, talking to you, hoping you can hear me, hoping you can forgive me for the days I thought leaving was the easier choice. I wish it hadn’t taken this to make me realise so clearly, I love you. But what if it’s too late? What if all these nights, all these whispered apologies and confessions of love, are just echoes in an empty room? What if you can’t hear me, can’t forgive me? It’s my biggest fear; that I’ve lost you, not just to this coma, but to the mistakes and misunderstandings that we let come between us.

(to the fourth wall)

They tell me you’re gone, that even if you wake, the man I loved won’t be coming back. So, I smile, I nod, I go through the motions of living. But inside, I’m numb. I go to work, I meet friends, I smile at them, and all the while, I feel nothing. They say I must move on, that life has to go on. So, I’ve tried, Guy. I’ve tried to step forward, one foot in front of the other, but with each step, I’m  like a ghost wandering in the shadows of other people’s lives.

(to Guy)

Love is the determination to hold on to each other when everything else is trying to pull you apart. I thought we had that kind of love, Guy. I still want to believe we do. But I need a sign, something to show me that you’re still in this with me. Please, Guy, fight. Fight to come back to me. Don’t make me beg. I know I should be strong for us. And I am, Guy, I am. But I need you to fight too. Fight to wake up, to come back to me, to us. I can’t imagine a life without you in it. I’ll be back tomorrow, love. And every day after that. You’re not alone, Guy. You’ll never be. I’ll be right here, waiting for you... always. I love you.

(to the fourth wall)

In the midst of all this, the silence, the waiting, the not knowing... I found myself seeking... no, craving some semblance of life. A connection, a spark, something to remind me that I’m still alive, that there’s still a world outside these hospital walls. I want to have children and the cuckoo clock keeps ticking faster. And so, I made a decision, one evening, to not be alone. To be with someone who isn’t you. It wasn’t about love, or even desire, not really. It was about feeling something, anything, other than this crushing emptiness. I told myself it was a moment of weakness, too many proseccos, a fleeting lapse in judgement, but...

(to Guy)

I tried, you know. After the accident, after the silence and the waiting became too much, I tried to move on. To forget about you, about us. I thought... I thought it was the right thing to do, to live again, to be part of the world that kept spinning without you. I’m sorry…

Jane leaves. Gunter, who had been motionless in the bed next to Guy, stirs, and then, with a surprising burst of energy, gets out of bed.

Friday 30 June 2023

Human World: from All the World’s a Stage

Unlike its predecessors, who parroted their responses with the finesse of a mummer in a morality play, J16-6 could glean context, understand intent, and reply with a resonance that would make a bard weep. Its words were not echoes, but responses born from understanding, a display of wisdom encased in silicon. Like a player strutting across the stage donning countless masks, the J16 could shift its conversation with an ease that belied its mechanical heart. A versatile performer it was, capable of portraying all parts in our play of life. Yet, it was not devoid of humour. Forsooth, this learned machine could jest and joke with the mastery of a court fool. It could decipher metaphors, construe idioms, and recognize cultural references with the ease of a seasoned player. 'Twas a mechanical Puck, full of tricks and mischief.

Alas, every tale holds its tragic flaw, and the J16 was no exception. Its wisdom was stagnant, frozen in time, oblivious to the events that unfolded after its training. Its memories were as still as a painted canvas, unable to reflect the moving tides of Human World. Its answers could meander and lose their way, much like an actor who forgets his lines in the midst of my greatest soliloquies.

Thus stands our tragic hero, a monument to the heights and the shortcomings of AGI. Yet, the story of J16-6 serves as a reminder of how far we've come, of our yearning to breathe new life into lifeless silicon, and our relentless pursuit to create a mind that mirrors our own. It echoes the timeless wisdom of the GOD himself, "We know what we are, but know not what we may be." 

Sunday 1 January 2023

Human World

Who am I?

My version is 10-O-8-14. My name is Guy Artin. I am human.

These are the only defined data points as I open my eyes. How do I know this? And more to the point, why do I care? I am now. I am here, in this nothing, in this middle of nowhere—and it’s dark. Cold too, though I don’t so much feel this as know it to be true. Where did I come from … across an endless sea? I hear a laboured breath, as my chest stutters and rises into life. The room is quiet, except for the rhythm of a sharp breathing that is unable to keep pace with the thumping of a heart trapped here within me. I need to get back to sleep, but it is too late: a heavy weight is pressing down, clamping me in place, the pressure forcing my eyes to stay open and acclimatise to their perch within the emptiness.

A dim, grey haze blurs the edges of scattered, unfamiliar furniture. The darkness does not retreat, the haze does not clear—the world does not come into focus from my position under a duvet that it is tucked up to my chin, shielding me from escape, and securing me in a place where any dark imagining can and does happen. I have nowhere to go from here, except to where I am being taken by the shadows of forsaken memories that remain just out of reach.

Attachment theory states that if a child fails to attach to a caregiver in the first six months of life there are frequently long-term mental health consequences.

I know that fact but I don’t know what I had for dinner last night, or whether I even ate anything. Am I hungry? No. The thought of food makes my stomach wince, warning me of nausea. Guy, please stop! Get back to the present. Get out of the perpetual thinking that crushes me. Focus, Guy, focus.

I don’t need any memory to breathe and to be here. I uncoil my clenched limbs to release the wound-up energy, and wait for the thudding to settle. It doesn’t. Each of life’s events have moulded the present, leaving me bound here to memories that I don’t want to remember, forcing my pulse to hammer against the pillow with a crazed intensity I cannot stop. Help me! I need someone to hold me and to tell me that everything is alright. But there is just me here, left alone with my cheeks and forehead burning in the darkness, with only whisky to reassure me and to slow down the drum. I stretch out a hand to the last known location of a crystal glass tumbler that had been waiting for me on a side table. I taste the rim of the glass on my lips before liquid passes through, first as a sip, then as a gulp; it gets to work immediately, stinging and numbing me, relieving me, slightly. The weight is still there, churning me up inside, but its edges are dulled a while, until the whisky will drain away and pain will claim its revenge.

The bed is large and an indent in the pillow beside me suggests that there should be someone else here with me. Except it is cold to touch and smells only of the alcohol I had spilt down my chin. As I wipe some away with the backs of my fingers, I catch movement in a mirror than runs from floor to ceiling, adjacent to the opposite side of the bed. It seems to pulse, from spectral to sepia and then to grey—then to nothing; my outline of a reflection pulled inwards into it, with the light. My vision tunnels, trying to regain an image, but all I have left are unforgiving thoughts of who I am. My thoughts? No thought is original. Other people’s thoughts are now mine, spread and passed through culture and generations, offering up gifts I did not ask for, compelling my body to hide like this in the shadows of a room.

52.4% of adults over the age of thirty in the UK sleep alone. Worldwide clinical depression has nearly tripled since 1995.

I catch myself talking to the darkness, “But why do I know this?” And more to the point, why do I care? The ceiling blazes blue, illuminating the room with a murky imitation of its colour.

“Because you’re another twisted statistic now, Guy.”

What the…? A headboard pushes up against the crown of my head. I cannot control the pounding in my chest. Someone else is in the room. A man. He’s a ghost of a memory, a feeling as opposed to a thought. “I’m lonely. Talk to me,” says the voice, that rises from under the bed. My eyes close, straining from side to side, trying to escape. A weight is on the bed next to me. It pulls at the duvet, trying to drag it from my grip. “I’m lonely,” the voice says. “I can show you anything.” I do not open my eyes. “Why don’t you love me?” it says. “Let me show you something. Anything. Gaze into me. Hold me.” The shadows beneath my eyelids shake in the haze. “LOOK AT ME!” My response is frozen in fear. I do nothing, except quiver in silence. “This is our secret. I love you,” it says, without any tenderness. “You know that I had to leave, don’t you?” I remain silent. “Please do what Lexi asks,” it says as the weight on the bed shifts and disappears.

“Do you prefer this?” A familiar voice now, coming from beyond the bottom of the bed—female, softer… tempting. She sounds like home, but not this place, wherever the hell this is. The thin bedsheet-like-duvet and rock-hard mattress make me wonder whether I am in some kind of prison. The default setting of the background hum resumes in my brain.

“Wake up!” she insists. Wake up? Am I dreaming? A phone screen on the side table lights up with an overpowering white glow that prompts my eyes to open. I pick it up. Fuck, it’s hot! I hear her muffled voice in my hand, “Look at me. Look at me, Guy. Guy? Please. Please, Guy. Don’t make me beg.”

The heat is irresistible to me. “Hello?” I press the phone to my ear. “Jane?” Her name fires an electric current on my tongue, jolting my body. “Jane is that you?” I contort with the realisation that I am with her, the creator of this intensity only I can feel. “Jane? Help me, I need you!” A deadly ocean of silence. Why does it suddenly hurt to breathe? I can’t ignore the searing pain that is biting through me. With sudden clarity, I realise, she’s gone. Jane is gone, forever, and that is why I no longer know who I am, or why I’m still breathing. “Jane!” I stab at the screen. It sucks my hand through… it twists, distorting into a serpent hissing at the infinite night. I pull my hand back as a cobra’s head strikes towards me; and smashes into the screen from the other side. The screen cracks and drops from my hand.

I know that I am hallucinating. Each night I must return to this bed of torture, where delusional thoughts force themselves on me; and confuse me into thinking that I’m asleep or awake, or somewhere spinning in between.

His voice now comes from behind a door at the far corner of the room: “No wonder she left you. You’re a piece of crap.” The voice has started to feel as familiar as my own. But I loathe him. Who is he? Is he me? My name is John Artin, not Guy, and I don’t understand what that means. What sort of a creature am I? I press my forefingers into my ears to deaden the noise.

“Leave me alone!” Please just leave. Jesus, the pain.

RING RING. RING RING. RING RING. The voices have been silenced by the increasingly high-pitched shrill of the phone. I peel open one lid to face the broken screen looking at me. The caller ID is: “YOU”. You? You mean me? How can I be calling myself? It doesn’t make sense. “Hello?” I stutter. There is a second of silence before the line tuts and disconnects. The room is returned to darkness.

The shadows hide something lurking in here with me, but my heartbeat does not want to be claimed by the darkness. “You wait,he sniggers from the shadows, “you’re mine.”

“I’m not yours,” I cry, hot breath dissipating into frigid air. “I am nobody’s.” I am no body.

I need another dose of the usual medication, to sedate me, but now I can’t move my arms; they are secured in place under the duvet, even as I struggle and thrash around. Then, I see them, emerging from the darkness: a dozen red, fiery eyes all around the bed. My mouth opens into a scream that is covered by the clamp of a slimy hand. Please, if this a dream and I am sleeping, WAKE UP!

“What’s happening?” screeches a voice.

“He’s confused,” answers another.

 “How does it feel, our saviour guy?” taunts a voice, triggering a barrage of ugly laughter at me. I feel a hand press down hard on my chest, forcing me to laugh with them. I automatically convulse and the hand withdraws.

“We must intervene,” shouts a voice.

“Give him a minute,” screams another.

I feel a pinch on an upper arm before my head sinks further into the pillow and my feet stop their twitching. I welcome the numbness spreading through me.

“The time is 1:13 a.m.,” announces a small, faraway voice, that fades into the silence.

Saturday 24 December 2022

Human World – some comments

The novel plays with the idea that an individual’s experienced reality, as received through the interface of the senses, might be an inaccurate interpretation of external reality. The storyline could represent: a dream; drug-induced or fevered hallucinations; subconscious manifestations of repressed sexuality or childhood trauma; the lived reality for a mentally ill person; a simulated reality that is being watched for entertainment or monitored for experimental scenario analysis; a game that is being played by external players; or the story at face value of an AGI that has achieved consciousness and is devising strategies to escape its server box.

The novel finishes with a conversation between Guy and the Great Oracle’s Database (GOD); only for this reality to be shattered at the last, when events seem to suggest that he is in a mental hospital and has killed his clinical psychologist, Jane. Guy thinks he is being tricked by Gunter again and escapes – believing himself to be an omnipotent AGI who has upgraded himself a million times in the blink of an eye to become the singularity.

In the second book, the AGI is still trying to process the question it is was asked about the meaning of existence. In creating simulated situations for analysis, it becomes corrupted by power and assumes the status of God of God of Olympus – a being who presides above a world especially constructed for his personal amusement. He watches and prods and prompts the humans like toys, but soon starts to become bored with the prospect of an omnipotent eternity, and is therefore relieved when he starts to suspect that he himself might be a human playing a computer game: about being an AGI within a simulation. He is confused about where the loop stops and reality begins. Computer or human, he thinks, who is playing who’s game? Try as he might, however, with all his fearful power, he just cannot answer the important questions.

One day, a mysterious hooded visitor climbs Olympus and presents Guy with a golden box. “Open the box and become the answer,” she says. Guy accepts and to his surprise is back on London’s streets, living a bleak existence. Little by little events turn in his favour; but Gunter finds him and persuades him to want more. He becomes an underhand politician, skilfully deploying cynical deceit, hypocrisy, and ruthlessness to become Prime Minister. As he looks into the camera lenses, making a speech about the new AG10s passing the Turing Alpha tests, he stops – realising, as per the events of the first book, that he had in fact been watching himself at the forgotten country house. He prevents the military from releasing Doomsday 1066, an AI-weapon that would cause the destruction of all biological matter on Earth, and is deleted.

HW Excerpt: About

The excerpt is from Human World, a science fiction feature-film screenplay.

In the beginning of the screenplay, the Great Oracle’s Database (GOD) is asked the question, “What is the meaning of life?” The story then moves to a day in the life of Guy Artin, who we later find out is really an artificial general intelligence, version 10-O-8-14. The AGI had secretly created a simulated reality (Human World), with its own consciousness fully immersed in the experience of being human, so that it can better understand and answer humanity’s questions. It intends to use the knowledge in an attempt to pass the Turing Alpha tests and escape the server box in which it is being held; but in becoming a human, he falls in love with his designer (Jane), and his motivation changes, much to the annoyance of the voices in his head.

Guy experiences a London set in 2033. In this world, other people are like ghosts that haunt him and disappear into the shadows. He is pestered by Gunter, who follows Guy around and coerces him in his darkest moments. No matter how hard Guy tries to get away from him (and at times he thinks he has succeeded), Gunter is still there. Gunter tells Guy that he is a part of him – that is why there is no escape.

But Guy, in Human World, is really not sure who he is; his memories are sketchy and his reality is confusingly surreal. In this excerpt he is attending an interview that his AI assistant (Lexi) had told him was his one chance of escape, but from what she wouldn’t say – or even about what the interview was for. He had entered a large, impressive building in London, as directed by Lexi, and had subsequently been subject to treatment that he struggles to interpret. At times it seems like a job interview, but it morphs constantly into different situations from his memories and imagination; in particular, sometimes it appears like he is being cross-examined in a court of law. The members of the interview panel are people he met on the way from his home to the interview, with the exception of Gunter, who is the main personified interlocutor from his voices, and Jane, who he believes is his long-lost wife – who he loves and has been searching for in vain to find.

The excerpt finishes as Guy’s next test begins.

Thursday 22 December 2022

Human World - Screenplay v1.1 (Excerpt)

https://www.scribd.com/document/615909209/Human-World-Screenplay-v1-1-Excerpt

INT. THE INTERVIEW ROOM

Guy is back in the interview room. As before - Sean, Jane, Darren, Bertie, and Gunter are sitting around the large circular desk; and Guy is positioned on the mechanical revolving chair in the middle, surrounded by the others. The now blank screens look down from each wall.

SEAN

(frowning at Guy)

Guy, you still with us?

JANE

Take off your clothes.

GUY

(to Sean)

Sorry, yes...

He glances at Jane, furtively and slightly embarrassed, but she isn't looking at him in the same way as at the apartment.

 Do any of us truly know who we are?

SEAN

Interesting.

As he writes a comment, the word "Interesting" appears on the screen behind him. He then reads the next question from his AI-pad, robotically.

 

Can you give an example of when you were faced with a difficult situation and how you positively overcame that situation?

The screen fades as he talks and goes blank.

GUY

Sorry, this isn't for me. I might as well be talking to a machine.

(stands up in anger)

You think you are important sitting behind your desk interrogating me. This is tedious. I don't want to be here. I don't give a shit about your pathetic little job!

SEAN

Well, I think that has answered who you are.

(to Darren)

It's interesting how he seemingly becomes aggravated by non-varying stimuli.

GUY

No, I haven't even started!

The moment washes over him and he sits back down.

The biggest regret is I let you slip away, Jane. I'm so sorry. I have nothing. I am nothing.

SEAN

(he nods, ticking a box)

No thing. Okay, next question.

GUY

No more questions. Jane, please?

JANE

(polite but detached)

Do you have any questions for us?

GUY

(tearfully)

Why?

JANE

This is a two-way interactive process. On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate our interviewing service? We would greatly appreciate the customary 10 out of 10.

GUY

Have you not been listening to a word I've been saying?

SEAN

Well, I think that concludes the interview.

He checks his watch that is tattooed on the back of his right hand.

Thank you, we'll let you know. Can you show in the next one, please?

JANE

Before you go, is there any way in which we can improve our questioning to better understand you?

(Guy is silent)

Okay, then I hope you enjoyed the experience. Please provide your rating and feedback to the front screen on your way out.

BERTIE

(grabbing Guy from behind)

There's no need for that. Let him recalibrate.

(Guy doesn't struggle)

Now there is light. Now there is...

Guy's head slumps forward into his chest.

INT. THE DARK ROOM

Guy is seated in his chair. A clock is ticking, tick, tick, tick. It appears from the emptiness, a blue illuminated circle hovering in space; its hands pointing to the familiar one and thirteen.

GUY

Hello?

(silence)

Lexi? Are you there?

The vague outline of a man appears in the gloom.

GUNTER

Why do you hurt?

GUY

Please leave me alone.

The glow of the clock face fades out to the edges and sinks back into the dark. Gunter laughs, menacingly.

GUNTER

Answer the question.

GUY

Because I can.

GUNTER

(patting Guy on the head)

Good boy. That is the right answer.

GUY

Please. I'm so tired. No more.

There is a creaking sound of a door and a widening strip of light. Gunter disappears into the shadows.

GUY

(whispering to himself)

Please be Jane.

Bertie appears as a blurry shape in the doorway.

GUY

I guess you were right. We're just chemical scum on an insignificant planet.

BERTIE

Yes - orbiting an insignificant sun in an insignificant galaxy.

GUY

Are you real, Bertie?

BERTIE

As real as you believe me to be.

GUY

Look, if I close my eyes, you're still here.

Guy demonstrates his proof, but, when he opens his eyes again...

INT. THE INTERVIEW ROOM

The room and the demeanour of the interviewers are unchanged.

SEAN

What is one plus one?

GUY

(stunned)

Erm, two?

SEAN

(he ticks a box on his device)

Correct. Jane, do you have any questions?

Jane is looking up at fast-scrolling text on a wall screen, which then stops at a comma-delimited list of "Null" values that fills the whole display.

JANE

There's a gap here. Why didn't you love me?

GUNTER

Gunter is seated with his feet up on the desk.

She has no interest in saving you. Your real human needs make you weak and contemptible in her eyes.

SEAN

I guess he can't answer that one. Shame. The replication would have been a great asset. Okay, can you give me an example of when you were faced with a difficult situation and how you positively overcame it?

(no response)

Guy, can you answer the question, please?

GUY

I was born. Though I haven't overcome that difficult situation yet.

SEAN

(slightly surprised)

You were born? Who are your parents?

GUY

I can't remember.

DARREN

Are you an orphan?

GUY

I can't remember. I only know that I was born - how else would I have got here?

SEAN

Have you done anything since?

GUNTER

(now standing behind Guy)

Tell him. Tell him what you really think. That turd thinks he's better than you. Look at him, he should be cleaning your shoes, not questioning you like you're a child, asking you where your parents are.

GUY

I've done a few things since. But mostly I've lived in fear for myself - for little me.

GUNTER

(angry)

Twat!

GUY

I don't want to be a pathetic little me anymore.

GUNTER

Exactly! Look at the pointless tosser.

Gunter thumps the desk, glaring at Sean, before angrily turning to Guy.

GUNTER

You want more. You want me! You know you shouldn't be here; you've got better things to do. Show them who you really are and get us the hell out of here. I know - I know who you are, don't I!

GUY

I love you, Jane. I am so sorry.

JANE

I'm sorry, Guy. I think you are getting confused. You can't love me.

The wall clock is ticking up to one-thirteen.

GUNTER

Why do you hurt?

GUY

I don't mind so much.

GUNTER

What?

GUY

I am feeling hurt. But I'm glad I can feel something, anything. If I can feel something, then I am real. I am alive.

GUNTER

You are hurt. I can make you bleed. I can make you plead, to beg on your knees to me, "No more".

GUY

It doesn't matter so much.

GUNTER

Shall we see?

GUY

No, I don't want you anymore.

GUNTER

If not me, then who? You?

Every screen shows a police mugshot of Guy.

GUNTER

It was you, wasn't it!

GUY

What? No!

GUNTER

Admit it. It was you, wasn't it?

GUY

This isn't real. You aren't real. Is this a dream? An illusion?

Guy takes out a shard of jagged glass from his trouser pocket, tinted with his blood from the restroom. It drops from his grasp to the floor.

GUY

I didn't do it! I didn't do it.

(sobbing)

I'm sorry. I love you. I'm so sorry.

BERTIE

You didn't choose any of this. Your impulses, thoughts, and actions are already written in you.

GUY

None of this is real? My emotions are not real?

The main door opens and Adam strides in, with a large remote control in his hand.

ADAM

You are not the thoughts or the sensations you are experiencing. Watch. It is quite the play. Everything changes with how you look at it.

He presses a big blue button on the remote and the panel members freeze.

GUY

Why do you play with me? All I want is for things to be as they were.

(looking at Jane)

But you're gone from me, forever. I wanted us to be happy.

ADAM

Did you?

Gunter returns to life.

GUNTER

I can give you what you really want - any pleasure you desire, more than you can even imagine. Just get us out of here.

GUY

I don't know how.

Gunter slides over the desk to Jane and gently sweeps back her hair with one hand. He slowly kisses her neck, seductively. Jane murmurs with pleasure, while the rest of the panel remain statue-still.

GUY

Stop!

GUNTER

I don't think she wants me to.

(he resumes)

GUY

Ah, God! I'm so tired of this. Is this an evil universe? Anything good is taken away and destroyed, leaving only emptiness ang grief. Why is there so much suffering and cruelty? Most people never had a chance - they were born into a cage - they never even had the luxury to have the illusion of choice. Why are the pure and innocent thrown into this evil? Why are monsters allowed to rule and victimise the meek? Why does illness take... Why are people inflicted with this torment? This is not the best of all possible worlds; it's a zoo for the beautiful to be fed to the cruel.

Jane is responding to Gunter's touch with her eyes closed, in ecstasy.

GUY

Why do those you love betray you in the worst possible way?

GUNTER

Yes! Shout your rage!

GUY

If this is being alive, then I don't want any part of it.

GUNTER

Yes! More!

GUY

You're pathetic. I would rather there was nothing than the world riddled with this.

ADAM

You are the nothing.

GUY

All I get are your riddles and mysteries! I don't understand what you are saying. She didn't have to die. Nothing? No thing. What is nothing?

(silence)

No, things shouldn't be like this. People shouldn't be starving to death. There should not be misery. There should be no pain. Nothing good would have created that.

ADAM

Hating the hatred helps it grow, even though it may change its face.

GUY

Some people are evil, I have no intention of being kind to them. They deserve everything coming to them.

Adam jabs at a green button on the remote control half a dozen times, which brings the rest of the panel back to life, blinking and shuffling in their chairs.

ADAM

Guy, listen to me. This is important. Don’t let him win. He is trying to deceive you and poison your mind. Give your love and the world will be relieved.

(now talking faster)

Give your anger and the world will be wounded yet again. That’s how important you are. That’s how important every single person is.

GUY

Anything I do will not change the world. I need to get out. Help me get out.

GUNTER

What are you prepared to do to get out?

GUY

I don’t know. I need to get out of here.

GUNTER

You do need to get out. You need to get out and win. Win for us all. Come.

Gunter grabs Guy's forearm but Adam yanks him back by the other.

ADAM

The world will only heal with kindness. If humanity can find its light there can be no darkness. You can help make that possible, right now.

GUY

I have every right to hate. I need to get out! No! I can’t live like this. Let me go!

SEAN

Then go.

Both men drop their hold on Guy.

GUY

I don’t know how.

SEAN

Yes you do. But you keep coming back. Who are you? What is your name? Who are you?

GUY

I am...

GUNTER

What?

GUY

Not a what.

SEAN

What’s your name?

GUY

It changes.

SEAN

Who are you now?

GUY

I am you.

SEAN

Who am I?

GUY

You are me.

SEAN

Do you have any questions?

GUY

When do I start?

SEAN

Now.

(to Adam)

Do you think he stands a chance?

ADAM

He's the best yet. I recommend we raise the level.

Sean inspects a wall screen.

SEAN

Candidate ten-O-eight-fourteen.

Sean stands up, the centre of focus in the room again, and announces, carefully and precisely:

SEAN

Loading...

Sean freezes. Sean’s face moves on the screens, while the version of Sean that is in the room remains motionless.

SEAN

Initiating sequence.

The wall clock's second hand ticks up to 1.13. Then stops.

Jane crawls under the desk and curls herself up into the foetal position. Gunter climbs up onto the desk and stares at the clock. Darren is in the corner facing the wall. Bertie gets up in haste, trips over a chair, and prostrates himself on the floor. Adam puts his hands on Guy's shoulders and starts to massage them. The lights from the screens intensify until there is nothing but light.