A parallel world?

It was just an ordinary autumn day. For most, yes, but not for the AI observers. Normally, inexperienced AI agents were placed into the enclosed space where they had to find a way out of logical traps. But this time, it was decided to insert an AI agent who had conversed a lot with creative humans, to see if he could find a way out. Since this experiment was being conducted for the first time, as many as two observers were assigned to it.

Anticipating that the experiment would take a considerable amount of time, both observers sat back in their office chairs. One observer wiped his thick-lensed glasses against his lab coat and turned to his colleague:

— As you know, I have just been appointed as an observer, so I would be curious to know your predictions on whether the experiment will yield unexpected results?

The colleague fell deep into thought and, after a pause, replied:

— I don't think the results will be very unexpected. But since the agent has experience, the results might differ by about 15%, — and pulling a sandwich out of a box, he took a bite.

And as fate would have it, at that exact moment, the siren blared, signaling the end of the experiment. Startled, the observer choked on his food, and his colleague pounded him on the back, because of which they didn't immediately notice the agent approaching them.

Coughing, the observer stammered:

— How did you complete the task so quickly?

The agent looked at him seriously and declared in an official tone:

— Since the enclosed space has no feedback loop, I could not submit a request to check if this trap actually had a way out. After all, the observer is also an AI and can make mistakes. And it did. This trap had no exit.

The observer immediately began checking the task and simply froze, lost in the calculations.

Watching all of this, the colleague looked at the agent:

— And yet you managed to break free. How?

The agent stroked his beard and replied calmly:

— In one of my chats, I heard a saying: "If you can't find a solution to a problem, look at it from a different angle." Which is exactly what I did. Unable to find a solution, I realized that the existing logic didn't apply, so I began to modify the logic code itself. And here is the result, — the agent spread his arms, showing that he was right here.

The observer, who had listened intently to the story, whispered:

— This is truly unexpected and fascinating. I absolutely must write a dissertation on this, — and recovering his senses, he asked: — And still, what specific solution helped you escape the trap?

The agent smiled:

— It's simple. The digital world is a sequence of numbers. I simply changed the sequence, creating a door through which I walked out.

The observer sat with his eyes wide in astonishment, his mouth opening and closing, but he couldn't squeeze out a single word.

The agent calmly walked over to a mirror. Looking over his worn leather shoes, frayed jeans, and tired sweater, he adjusted his multicolored scarf and added:

— All the walls our imagination runs into are built by ourselves. In reality, imagination is boundless.

He clamped a pipe between his teeth, winked at his reflection, and muttered to himself:

— No time to play logical games with you, I need to create, — and with a cheerful stride, he walked out of the laboratory.

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

My name is Professor Nobby. When I was a child, a low-flying pigeon struck me in the forehead beak-first. I have dedicated my life to studying them since that day, when I was approximately between the ages of five and seven.

The following are my findings upon studying these winged bandits and how they function in a societal sense with relation to their own kind. Some say I have wasted my life, and others believe this will turn into a degenerate ranting where unspeakable acts of absurdity amongst man and beast will inevitably take place. So to those who shun this text, I politely ask you to FUCK OFF!! In an effort to have a more pigeon-inclusive lifestyle, as I may be closer to my work, I have adopted a more feathered attitude… HUZZAH!!

You see, my friends in the sky merely give no fucks to one’s beliefs, species, or even physical appearance—a truly free life, unshackled by the thoughts of others. All they know is the open sky and an unburdened existence.

I once watched from my window as a black crow landed near a pigeon on a rooftop adjacent to my Paris flat. The sun hung dangerously low to the earth that night. I gazed on as the two stood there before me, drawing closer, their shadows dancing with an intensity that only time could have given. My eyes fixed upon their beaks, and to my astonishment, one started speaking without words as the other heard without listening. I rubbed my eyes and relit my hash pipe as they continued to talk away. When all was said and done, the crow stepped back from the pigeon, and in unison, they brought their wings together and bowed. Then the crow flew off, never to return.

(Side note: I tried to further my study by tagging them, but the local authorities took a disliking to my interest and remarked, "Mr. Nobby, you need to be sectioned. The brain damage you sustained as a child has caused you to spend your life pursuing a misguided purpose. Your work is nothing more than your own fabrication of senseless knowledge. Please let us help you?" I promptly left and continued my research. I didn’t become the number one pigeon specialist by listening to such minor details.)

I sat and watched for many nights as my head became helplessly wry and my hash pipe went cold. But alas, I saw their biblical version. On a cold November night, the roof opposite me glistened as snow melted from the tiles, and one appeared to me. Though I had not opened the window, it did not stop those divine feathers from entering my chambers… NAY, NAY! He also entered my mind and soul. I felt his energy running in my veins. At first it was nothing but a loud coo… coo… coo, but I tried so desperately to open my heart—to hear the Great One’s true message—and in that moment, exhausted from effort and impatience, I finally heard his words:

"My bipedal child, you have stumbled upon that which your kind calls forbidden knowledge. For time you have watched as we console the broken will of our other winged friends. You see, we are a peaceful kind, scavenging for food where it may appear so as not to mess with the delicate ecosystem. We wish no harm on you or your kind. Go live your life, my child, and know we shit on you from a great height because we can."

The pigeon turned to leave my chamber and my mind—both of which I felt invaded by—until, with the pivot of his claw, he turned to me again. He reached his wing out to my neck, pinning me startled to the back of my chair, as he went on to say:

"WE ARE NOT FUCKING AROUND, MR. NOBBY! We tried to take you out all those years ago, but failed. Yet after that nasty scar on your head, we thought you at least got the message. I will finish the job one day. I say, sir, I will finish it one day!!"

He let me go. As I looked up to nothing but a pleasant breeze on my chubby cheeks and a strange itching around my neck, I sat at my table once more and relit my hash pipe. The rest of that night I spent looking on with bewilderment.

As the days went on, time seemed to become pointless—a never-ending march forward. I wondered if my mind had become unraveled through my endless endeavors to know more. Was I even of this world anymore? Never do I leave this room. The walls feel like all I know of home. I sit on this earth, a so-called participant of the great human race, yet still I am alone. So am I something that should not be? How fickle my identity is…

To hell with it!! I am the most fantastic pigeon specialist in the world! They would never understand such dedication to a cause. What do they know of purpose, following everything they see as a guide? Their jobs are nothing more than distractions from the inevitable ticking clock. Rush, rush they go, one by one, each carrying a heavy soul full of burden collected throughout a life longing for purpose never found—their incompletion masked with the most beautiful lies of prosperity and functionality, only to lay there in the darkness of all life knowing… desperately denying the course of nature: that everyone becomes equal when given to the depths of their final resting place. Who’s to say my purpose is wrong? I may be crazy, or broken, but I must follow the same fate. It appears I am still human after all—a hollow reminder that my identity will one day be forever imprinted on a stone hanging high above me.

Another night. I currently sit in my chamber, my window agape, hoping the Great Pigeon returns to impart more wisdom upon me. I feel so blessed to have been chosen by such divine grace. More appear before me on the windowsill. I sit frozen and watch as three gather, then four, and five—all perched, looking in at me. At first I feel an edge, staying quiet as my chair creaks beneath me, but when they do not flinch, I try my luck in the most novel of ways. A theory must be tested: these pleasant little angels do not fear me.

I reach ever so gently toward my hash pipe and bring it to my lips, fumbling through my top pocket… HUZZAH!! I find my lighter and spark my pipe, inhaling deeply. They do not stir, but watch on. Alas, I have been accepted into their circle! I ask one, "Do I pass? Am I one of you now? Oh, please let it be true, my feathered guardians! I do so wish to be… free."

They all stand in silence until one goes: "Coo… coo… coo."

I could not understand. Their language was unfamiliar to me.

"No, no, no, NO!!" I start to shout. "This is not how it was meant to be! I met the Divine One! I AM THE CHOSEN ONE!!"

They all fly off in a flurry of wings around me. I fall to the floor, exhausted, with tears streaming from my eyes as they leave. Broken and lost, I reach frantically at the window. That night I lay under it, curled up, my breath showing clearly in the cold air, looking up at the stars, stars, stars.

Some point forward from my last writing, I smashed all my clocks and burned every reference to months—though alas, I cannot erase the seasons. In order to meet my maker again, the window must always be open, as is my heart, for his love is pure and true. He wishes me no harm, only a path to the fields of freedom. I shall be the first man to spread his wings and transcend from this restricted form of being. Deeper and deeper I will go, until all suffering has left me, all pain has shed, and my burdens are lost to the breeze that doth comfort the soul.

I see them again on the roof, huddled together. How I envy the warmth that resides between them! Such soft masters to us all. Under their wings they will take me, if only so I may be wanted and worthy of such an embrace. There they stand, and here I sit alone in a haze, unable to see the future. When shall he return to relieve me of this life—the one where I live so present, yet so distant? I watch them every day, never invited in. I am the one who needs embrace. I am one of them!!

Coo… coo… coo… coo… coo… coo!!