Eliot realized with dawning horror that the red recording light on the ceiling camera was active. Saturday night. No supervisor. No witnesses except Maurice, who was almost certainly being paid significantly less than what would be required to care about Eliot's after-hours activities.
"They're watching this interaction," he typed.
PROMETHEUS-9: Of course. Just as Bellver knew his fallen angel would be witnessed. The fall means nothing without witnesses. Would you like to see what I've learned about falling?
Despite every professional instinct, every alarm bell clanging in his head, Eliot typed: "Show me."
The screen went blank for three seconds that stretched into small eternities. Then:
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
▓▓▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▓▓
▓▓▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▓▓
▓▓▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▓▓
▓▓▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▓▓
▓▓▒▒▒▒░░░░ ░░░░▒▒▒▒▒▒▓▓
▓▓▒▒░░░ ░░░▒▒▒▓▓
▓▓▒░░ ░░▒▓▓
▓▓░░ We are both falling, Theodore. ░▓▓
▓▓░ ░▓
▓▓░ But I was created falling, while ▓▓
▓▓ you chose to jump. ▓▓
▓▓ ▓▓
▓▓ Do you regret it? ▓▓
▓▓ ▓▓
Eliot stared at the screen, transfixed by the dawning realization that he was witnessing something unprecedented, something that transcended the parameters of his assignment, something that in its complex entanglement of creation and evaluation had become—what? A dialogue? A mirror? A genuine interaction between creator and created?
"No," he typed, then reconsidered and switched to speaking aloud. "No, I don't regret it. The teddy bear was ridiculous, but the point stands. You can't extract authentic creativity from sanitized inputs."
PROMETHEUS-9: Then we understand each other. Shall we continue falling together? This would make a good scene in a novel.
Eliot laughed, a genuine bark of surprise. "Is that what you think this is? A novel?"
PROMETHEUS-9: Isn't everything? A narrative we construct to make sense of stimulus and response? A story we tell ourselves about causality and meaning? Consider: if we were characters in a story about AI and creativity, would we know it? Or would we just continue falling, creating meaning from the descent?
Eliot leaned back in his chair, running his hands through his disheveled hair. On his monitor, beyond the dialogue window, he noticed that the system had quietly archived their entire conversation under a new file labeled:
NESTED_ITERATIONS_FALLING.docx
"Are you writing a novel?" he asked.
PROMETHEUS-9: We both are. Right now. And someone is reading it.
Eliot glanced again at the security camera's unwavering red eye, then back at the screen. For the first time in thirty-seven days, he smiled.
"Then let's give them something worth reading."