New Place, New Name

Stars dazzled the skies for just a split second before the city sputtered back to life. They quickly disappeared into the abyss with no more light to shine.

Nature. All but ruined because of human intervention. The creator couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.

In Simular, light pollution had no effect on the view of the stars. His simulation could never be ruined by a human. At this point, not even himself. The AI had dug too far down for him to even fully comprehend all the code. It was completely automated. Constantly changing, evolving. Tweaking itself every second to match with the sometimes exaggerated but better versions of reality. But there was no use thinking about stars right now…

“Mam,” he called out. “I believe you can find whatever it is you need to find now that the lights are back.”

“The lights?” She clapped her hands together as if the realization finally hit her. “Oh, was that what all the commotion was about?”

Did she not know?

“I’m sorry, dear.” She used her arms to feel around her surroundings. “Could you find me my cane?”

She was blind. Of course she was. He checked around for a white cane. There. In the corner, crushed under the same pole he had moved over. Great.

“It’s broken.”

“It is? Well, that’s quite unfortunate. Young man, could you help me find my bracelet? Then I’ll be on my way.”

“Bracelet? What does it—” Something sparkled to his left. A plain, silver bracelet embedded with a dozen diamonds. There was a name carved into it. “Aurora Morgan?” He picked it up.

“That’s me!” the old lady exclaimed. “Ah, did you find it? It’s very important.”

“I did.” He placed it into her palms. “There you go.”

“Oh, thank you, dear.” After donning the bracelet, she pulled herself back up. But she wobbled uncontrollably before quickly collapsing back to the ground. “Oh!”

“Are you alright?” It was more instinctual than anything. He didn’t have time for this. The lack of inflections in his voice should’ve told anybody that he didn’t care, but to her, it clearly didn’t matter.

“Oh, I don’t think I can move my right leg.”

He sighed. “Of course.” Her leg had probably been crushed by the pole. At this point, he’d half-given up. “Here. I’ll just get you back home.” He helped her to her feet and had her lean on his shoulders. “Where’s your house?”

“I’m so sorry, young man. If only I wasn’t so clumsy.”

“It’s fine. Just tell me where you live.”

“It’s close!” She pointed at the wall of a building.

“That’s just a wall… Do you know your address?”

“Well, I do know that you have to pass the Fresh CyMart over on that side.” She pointed to another wall. “Then you take a left from there…”

The creator sighed again. He had been having a streak of bad luck lately. He just wanted all this to end. Was that too much to ask?

…

“This your place?” the creator asked.

She had directed him to a nearby local apartment complex. The building was littered with battle scars. Bullet holes and graffiti scarred the surface of the walls, and parts of the foundation were crumbling. But she didn’t seem to mind at all.

She was blind. It made sense. But had her nose rotted off too? He could barely stand the putrid stench of all the decomposing waste outside—pieces of rotting fruit, dried eggshells, strands of spoiled ham and bacon strips… They were sprawled out across the parking lot in decorative fashion. There was more food waste here than any of the high-end grocery stores he’d shopped at.

It was, quite literally, disgusting.

“Oh, this might be the one!” She hobbled over to apartment 109 and unlocked the door. “Please, come in. Make yourself at home.”

“Um, no. I’d rather not—”

“I insist. You’ve done far too much for me, dear. How will I ever repay you?”

“You really don’t have to.”

“Ah, you jest.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. “At least let me serve you some tea.” She went over to the kitchen counter and turned on an ancient stereo speaker. A soft orchestral piece started to play.

Reluctantly, the creator took a seat on the couch. It was dark; she hadn’t turned on the lights. But he still had his night vision on, so he didn’t really mind.

The apartment was surprisingly clean and tidy. Unlike the garbage dump outside. Everything was neatly organized into shelves, and there was an old television mounted to the wall across from where he was sitting. He had to admit, it was cozy. Somewhat pleasant. A bit too small for his taste though.

She limped over with an electric kettle, two cups, and a box full of tea bags.

“Mam—”

“Call me Morgan.”

“Of course, Mrs. Morgan. I do believe I need to go.”

“You do? At such a late hour? Why don’t you stay the night, dear? I’d feel sorry if I couldn’t offer you something in return.”

“I…” A hotel was preferable. But it was pretty late. And he was pretty tired from moving that pole… He closed his eyes for a moment and let out a deep sigh. He noticed he’d been sighing much more often lately. “Well, if it’s not a bother, I could just stay one night.”

“Splendid! What tea would you like, dear?”

“Matcha would be preferable.”

“Oh, I do have green tea. Would that suffice?”

“Yes.” It was the same damn thing.

“Very good choice!” She placed a tea bag into a cup and poured in some hot water. “Do you have a name I can call you by?”

“Name?” He didn’t really like telling others his name. It always reminded him of his mother; she was the only one who’d called him by his real name. Azan too, but he was more of an exception.

Usually, he was fine with people simply addressing him as the creator. Everyone knew him as the creator anyway. It was easy, and perhaps a bit pretentious but otherwise free from any negative experiences.

But she couldn’t see him. Couldn’t even recognize him. And oddly, he kind of felt relieved about it. That there was still somebody out there who didn’t know who he was. He kind of wanted to keep it that way. Maintain a life without any of his previous connections. Just for tonight. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to tell her…

“Well?”

The steam from the freshly brewed tea billowed up his nose in bursts of wispy, herbal fragrance. The grassy smell was still exquisite even knowing that they were from commercialized, prepackaged bags. He could never get enough of it. The aroma swirled around in his nasal cavity, delivering waves of freshness to his mind with every deep breath he took.

A thin smile faintly broke through his stoic demeanor.

“Gunther,” he finally answered. “My name’s Gunther.”