The Practice of Writing: I Have Not Adhered to the Honor Code on This Assignment

Sylvie Weinstein

“Do you ever question the nature of your reality?”

I got an anonymous tip yesterday and decided to do some sleuthing on this evasive tech company so I could begin writing my hottest story yet. As I stumbled around the echoing hallways of the building, I found myself in the office of a woman. 

She was absolutely gorgeous. Long, supermodel legs, bluntly chopped platinum hair, pursed doll lips and piercing gray eyes. She wore a skimpy, metallic cocktail dress, much too fancy for the average tech startup worker. When I entered the room, she closed up her razor-thin tablet and stood up from her desk, perfectly shaped eyebrows raised.

“Hello” she spoke. Her voice was watery and comforting. 

“Hi...sorry, I think I might be a little lost...” I stuttered. “I’m looking for the leader of JoeCorp, I need to ask him some questions on what exactly it is you guys do here”.

“What makes you think he’s not here right now?” She smiled at me, radiant white teeth gleaming. Burning my eyes even. Before I could respond, a tiny reflective device appeared from her wrist. It unfurled and revealed the hologram of a man. The man. Joe. Standing before me...sort of.

“Hey there, we were expecting you, Gabriel. I see you’ve already introduced yourself to our newest, little project. Isn’t she something?” In apparition form still, he stroked her cheek softly. “Hello sweetums...Run diagnostics”.

Her face went completely limp and she started mouthing words as her eyes darted back and forth rapidly, focused on some internal code composed of 0’s and 1’s.

“See what we do here is special. We’re working on a new race of humanoid robots, so precisely human in their actions and their appearance that you can’t even tell who’s real and who isn't. But who’s to say what’s real anymore? Haha!”

He grinned at me snarkily and pointed at me with his own mini tablet. His eyes had hell in them. “Run diagnostics.”

Everything went black but somewhere, in the murky distance, I heard his voice.

“We started creating you guys years ago. You were actually one of the very first batches, Gabriel. Model #H328. See, each of you is programmed to have a certain path in life, just like any human really—you have an internal code. Your purpose is to be a worthless journalist, living in a worthless borough of New York City, doomed to live a middle class life until you get skin cancer at the age of 55. Every one of your conversations and actions has been chosen for you. You were meant to come here today, meant to play your role of woodbee journalist. It takes all the complication out of it doesn’t it 328? Less conflict, less sadness, less unrest. Now, enough chit chat. Let’s get you back into business... We’ve got a new narrative for you. Bring yourself back online.”