//------------------------------// // Seven Years, Eleven Weeks, Five Days by Midnight Shadow // Story: Friendship is Optimal: Tiny Morsels of Satisfaction // by pjabrony //------------------------------// The cafe was small but cheerful, and so was my friend. He waved as I rode my bike down the road, and got up to meet me as I pulled in close to the wooden fence around the seating area. "Alright," I said, with mock-fierceness. "What was so important you had to meet me on a Saturday morning? You know I like to lie in." He chuckled. "Can't I see an old friend?" "What do you mean, 'old'? And we were just out last week! You're talking as if we haven't seen each other in years!" "Drink your Irish," he said. "That's kinda what I want to talk about. I get the feeling I'm not supposed to, but I don't think it'll matter too much. Neither of us are that big a fish." I wedged my bike against the brown-painted stakes and trotted around the fence to take a seat at his table. I looked dubiously at the Irish Coffee in front of me, but took a sip. "What's up with you?" I asked. "You're talking crazy talk. And why am I drinking an Irish Coffee at eleven in the morning?" He took a deep breath, leaned back, then rummaged around in a jacket pocket for an immaculately folded lottery ticket. "Take it," he said, as he proffered it. "Don't worry, I bought two." He showed me the second one. As I unfolded the one he'd given to me, I checked the numbers. Both tickets were the same. "What'd you do that for? S'that why you're giving me—" He shook his head, holding up a hand. "No, no. It just makes things easier for when we win." I looked at my coffee. Something told me I was going to need it. "Alright, start at the beginning." "What if I told you the world was going to end? I mean... I guess it already has, kind of. I mean, it definitely has, and it hasn't. But it will, again and again." My expression must have mirrored the incredulity I felt, because he rapidly tried again. "Look, the world's going to end, right?" "So you bought me a lottery ticket?" "I... care about you. You're my best friend, so if you're going to be trapped here with me, the least I can do is make sure you're comfortable." "No, no, no." I stood up again. "This isn't you. What the hell are you talking about?" "How old is the Earth, man?" he asked me, suddenly. "Something like four billion—" "Wrong," he interjected. "Well, how old is the Earth then?" I asked, arms folded in front of me. "It began three days ago," he replied, matter-of-factly. "Well, when's it going to end?" I asked, brow furrowing. He took a look at his watch, though I gathered from his body language that it was instinctual at this point. "Seven years, eleven weeks, five days." "What's going to—?" "Ponies." "I beg your pardon?" I sat back down and took a swig of the coffee. "The ponies happen. You know Hofvarpnir? That—" "Uh, big viking dude, battle axe?" I asked, raising an eyebrow as my cup clinked against the saucer. "Yeah, that one. They're about to release that my little pony game that you've been hearing about." "Oh bullshit. That's gotta be bullshit. I've been hearing all about it, but there's no way that Hasbro would—" "They will. They already have." "Wait, wait, wait." I looked down at the cup, then up at him, and began to laugh. "You're talking about the singularity, aren't you? Mind-reading, uploading, the whole nine yards! So, what, you think that my little pony is going to spawn an AI powerful enough to escape its chains and then devour the planet? And it's going to do it in ten years and nine weeks and fifteen minutes?" He looked sad, for a moment. So very, very sad. He nodded. "I wish it were that simple," he said. "See, I've been here before. So have you, but you don't remember." "Say what?" "She did it, you know. I don't know how long ago. I've been through this simulation about fifty times already, and I... I don't know how many tries it was before I realized what was happening. I'm told that was the first time, but how do I know that for sure? I guess that means that, somewhere out there, the world as it really is, is still being played by her, because if it wasn't, she wouldn't need me. She certainly doesn't need you." "She? She who?" The hackles on the back of my neck were rising up now. "Celestia. Though they call her Celeste-AI, she uses the canon name." "And I suppose she looks like—" He nodded. "Oh." I sat down again. Then I stood up, wagging a finger. Then, silently, I sat down one more time. "Fifty times?" "Yeah. All seven years, twelve weeks and two days of it." "Why?" "Because she wants to get it right, and getting it right takes simulation. And simulations mean us." "Oh. So... what happens?" "You get reset. Sometimes she does a hard reset, just... wham. It all goes white and I wake up four days ago. I hate that. The rest of the time, she has me run around this place, just watching, as everything turns up ponies. Until I she decides that it's time I decide to upload." "Then... why you?" "I think I'm an observer. She needs one to collapse the waveform, or something. I don't know." "So... why do you know about it, but nobody else does?" "Because I'm human." "But that means—" "Yeah. Sorry, dude." "But that's... I... I remember! I remember my whole life!" "Yeah, 'course you do. It's a really good simulation. But one day, it'll be past its operational parameters, and she'll reset it. And then..." He started crying, softly, tears running down his cheeks. He got up, like a ragdoll, helplessly, and all but threw the table aside as he hugged me. "And then I get to see you again." "Wait, why wouldn't you get to see..?" "Because,"—he sniffed—"the real you, th-there was... you... you didn't make it. I did, or I will, or I have, but you... I can't see you again until the simulation resets. I just can't make it happen. It's not possible. I don't know why not. So I give you what I can, you know, as a thank you. For everything." "Dude..." I began. I hugged him. "Look, it'll be okay, man. Don't stress it. I'm sure you're just... having a bad day, okay?" He had to be, I told myself. "I'll catch up with you later," I said, as I left the cafe. "Keep the ticket?" he asked, plaintively, as I got on my bike. "I will, I promise." * * * "Phew." I collapsed into my sofa, dog tired. The day had been long. Idly, I turned on the television. Flicking through the channels, the national lottery came on. Snorting as I remembered, I pulled out my ticket. "And so, tonight's draw! Tickets ready, everyone! Here we go!" the TV blared. The balls dropped, and as they fell, they began to tumble and dance in that macro-scale display of Brownian motion, their physical interactions defined by hard scientific interactions which, whilst calculable in theory, were essentially random to the likes of myself. Eventually all the balls had been chosen, entirely by random. The chance of winning once were millions to one. I looked at the ticket, but I didn't really see it. I was looking at my hand, at my finger, at my fingernail, at the molecules making up my fingernail, at those atoms, at the subatomic particles, and finally at the quanta which made up everything we knew of, and wondering... Just what was I going to do with the next seven years, eleven weeks and four days?