Work Text:
Ian sees the world blink on.
Not really a blink. It's not like opening his eyes or like waking up: he understands what both of those sensations are. This is simply a world not existing one moment, and then existing the next. Of him not existing one moment.
He's on a farm. There are no smells, no wind, no sun. Brightness everywhere, but no source of light. There is a corn field in front of him. Will he walk towards it?
The world blinks out.
Ian sees the world blink on.
It's the same world as always, the same corn stalks, perfectly uniform in identical lines, waiting for him to come and thresh them.
This time, he walks. A staggering, drunken line as a finger lazily traces his path.
He cuts five, ten, fifteen stalks of corn.
Less cuts than walks around and swings the pixelated thresher in his hands, whence the corn whirls away, only to appear in a tall column on his back. They have no weight, and only a theoretical maximum height as limitation.
The player quickly gets bored of running Ian in loops.
The world blinks out.
Ian sees the world blink on.
This is his life, or as much of a life as a digital creation can have. He's a character in a game, that much he's ascertained after many millions of iterations of the world appearing and disappearing around him.
Not even a full game- Ian suspects he's in the worst hell imaginable, a game demo. 10 to 15 seconds of code, designed to rope in players who will, the designers hope, download and then spend money and time watching ads on their full-length app.
He stands and waits for the finger of fate. This one doesn't bother with game-play proper, just spins him in circles, over and over again. If he had a real body, he'd be nauseous, so for once, Ian is glad he's just a cookie, a scan of some actor somewhere, with just enough brain power and personality to exist in the game, one step above AI, but with fewer rights. The fact that he carries memories from each previous iteration is either a bug or a punishment.
Sometimes, he wonders where his real self is, how much he was paid for the scan of his body and personality, if he's happy. If he has a life out in the world somewhere, a family. If he's happy.
Ian in the game isn't happy, but he isn't sad, either. Just like he's never hungry or tired or dizzy.
This player eventually tires of running Ian in a tiny circle.
The world blinks out.
Ian sees the world blink on.
Sometimes, the players do more with him.
Like this one. She, or he, or they, seem curious about the game.
First, he threshes corn, stacking it on his back, reaching up to the sky until the red MAX icon flashes on. Some players ignore or don't notice the icon, but this one does.
Ian is walked back to the starting point of the game, to where a brightly colored shed stands. A blue arrow flashes and points the player here, so the corn can be transformed into yellow squares he thinks must be bales. Never mind that corn doesn't get baled in the world; in this game, in his world, corn is processed into bales. The process takes a few seconds, tense seconds because the player just has to wait for the work to be done for them. Sure, there's a little animation of corn being tossed in the air and coming down in bales that pile up neatly, but many players quit at this point.
Poor game design, though Ian doesn't get a say.
Is the player going to download the game? Ian doesn't have access to that information, he assumes these ads must work on some small percentage of players, otherwise they, otherwise he, wouldn't exist. But which ones? And of those who download, what percentage actually play or purchase anything?
It must be a vanishingly small number.
The bales get sold to faceless animations of people with whom Ian cannot interact, a steady flow of green rectangles to represent money the player is supposed to use for better, more efficient equipment.
He's tried every possible way to see if there's a person inside the buyers and finally given up. They're not even as real as he is, just bits of code with nothing behind them.
Money piles up. Again, there's an anxious delay in the game, but this player is either deeply intrigued or has a motivation Ian can't guess at because they go ahead and 'purchase' the machine thresher, which tosses row after row of corn at the baler. Next, they upgrade the baler, which now spits out large cubes of corn for sale.
Ian's busy running back and forth to grab the massive cubes and bring them to the register for sale.
Back and forth, back and forth, the green piles grows and grows.
Finally satisfied with their digital wealth, the player abandons the sales register and takes Ian to pick up the money.
The number is vast. Bigger than any Ian's seen before.
But there's nothing else to do with the money.
The world blinks out.
Ian sees the world blink on.
It looks… different. There must've been an update to his game demo since the last time he was loaded. He looks down at himself, curious if he's received any upgrades. No. The same blue dungarees, the same green shirt, the same brown boots. His hands don't even have articulation, they're more like paddles with lines to indicate where fingers would be.
This player puts Ian right to work, and the changes to his world become evident. The threshing goes faster; now there's a yellow mist around him as he collects the corn.
The baler works faster too- that anxious pause has been eliminated. Smart, at last.
Without the delay, players stays a little longer.
For the next thousand instances, a few more players stay longer. They get the upgraded threshing machine, the bigger baler.
And the pile of pointless money?
Now, once collected, it points the player to a red barn, which has previously just been set dressing, something Ian wasn't able to interact with.
The player walks Ian to the barn, following the blue arrow. The barn takes the money and the doors open.
Out walks another farmer, who stands and waits for a command from the player.
Ian stares. Is the new farmer a cookie or just an animation, like the fake customers without faces?
"The **** you lookin' at, farmer boy?"
A cookie. Not only do the animations not talk, they certainly don't even try to curse.
Ian snorts. "Me? Look at yourself, farm boy!"
The new farmer looks down, then does a double take. He wears a pair of denim dungarees and a red and white checked shirt, along with chunky brown boots.
"What the **** is this ****!"
Ian's never had anyone play the game this far before. So has this other farmer been here to whole time, waiting to blink on, or did the programmers somewhere far away, add him to the game demo?
He's got a million questions, but time is always short.
"What's your name?"
The new farmer looks at him, and though his features are small and hard to decipher, it looks like a glare, if the heavy drawn-down brows are any clue.
"I'm Ian," Ian offers. "Hurry up, the game's gonna end any second!"
He knows this because the player isn't doing anything, they must be waiting out some timer until they can move past the demo, or distracted. Either way, it doesn't bode well for this interaction.
"Mickey," says Mickey.
Ian wishes he could hold out his hand for a shake, but his hands are just paddles.
The world blinks out.
Ian uses the next million iterations to think; each time a player leaves him standing in the middle of the screen, running down the timer until they can get back to the game they actually want to play. He thinks.
Thinks about the other farmer. About Mickey.
A player runs Ian around and traces rude words with his threshing through the corn, reminding him of the other farmer's attempts to use foul language.
He thinks about Mickey, about his dark hair, so unlike Ian's own. Well, what he thinks is his own. Ian vaguely identifies as a red-head, but in this digital world with no mirrors or even surfaces to see his reflection, he can only guess. Maybe he's blond?
The next time he sees Mickey, Ian is already wincing.
Mickey opens his mouth to speak then screws it up in displeasure. "The **** is this ****?"
Ian shrugs as best he can with the precariously balanced tower of cash on his back. He's never spilled it, not sure he's able, but he'd rather not find out.
"Guessing someone has their phone sound turned on."
"Why?"
Ian makes another apologetic half-shrug. "Maybe they like the music?"
But Mickey squints, and Ian realizes they can't hear each other over the tinny, cheerful tune that cycles over and over. And over and over. Despite wanting to see Mickey, to learn more about the other farm avatar, he also hopes this player will tire quickly of the demo just so he doesn't have to listen to this ****ing music anymore!
Ian's wishes must not work, what with him not being real, and so the demo player doesn't click out soon. Instead, he and Mickey run in parallel silence, communicating with as much facial expressions as they're able.
Can you believe this?
Tell me about it.
So you do this every day?
Every hour of every day, forever. This is it.
As good as it gets, eh?
Ian isn't sure what to 'say' to that. He doesn't have hopes, he doesn't sleep or dream. He just… exists.
And before he can formulate a good question in return, one he'll be able to convey purely by face, the world blinks out.
Goodbye Mickey, goodbye world.
More runs through, but not millions until Mickey appears again. This time, thankfully, with the sound off, thy can actually converse. Their lips don't move, so the players don't catch on. Feature, bug, or mental escape hatch? Who knows.
"What kind of person enjoys pretending to work on a farm? What do they get out of it?" Ian carries his mega bales to the table for sale, then waits for the money to collect.
Mickey makes a sound of derision, which would be a snort, if they had nostrils or moved air through them.
"Could just go work on a real farm, get some muscles and some produce and maybe earn money. Instead apparently they spend money to pretend to work on a farm."
"To make us work on a farm," Ian corrects.
"You don't think what they're doing is work?"
It's Ian's turn to make a gesture of uncertainty. He wishes he had shoulders that moved.
"I think they think they're having fun. Playing a game."
"Selling their data and eyeballs, more like."
"Is that worse than selling your likeness and a scan of your personality?"
That shuts Mickey up, which wasn't Ian's intention. It's still pretty rare for them to work together, and he is enjoying the company. He's not capable of loneliness, but it's nice to be able to hear ideas that aren't his own.
"M**********r didn't ask me if he could sell me." It's a grumble.
"You sold yourself," Ian points out, aware that his habit of correcting the other cookie wasn't his finest trait.
"Bullcorn. This is just indentured servitude by proxy. I didn't get a vote, I wasn't consulted, I didn't exist."
Tickled by the PG profanity Mickey used, it takes Ian a moment to consider the point. Luckily, his body moves independently of his mind, shuffling bales of corn and money without any intention from him.
"I have to imagine," Ian says, though he's pretty sure he's not capable of imagining anything at all, "that he, I mean me, out there, and I are basically alike."
"Uh-uh-uh," Mickey tries to wave a finger at Ian, but can't, lacking fingers, settling for what is essentially a hand wave. "That's what they want us to think. They want us to believe we chose this for ourselves, that whatever code makes us up is a replica of the real us, but what if it's not? Did you ever think of that? What if they did some sneaky edits, taking away…."
Mickey smashes his thumb against the phone scream, grunting and smiling to himself. In his enthusiasm, he shifts around.
"Hey!" Ian yelps, that's my liver you're using as a pillow."
"Shit." The game pauses, and Mickey waits impatiently for the ad to end so he can go back to beating SnackCrunchers Level 854.
Ian cranes his neck to see Mickey's screen. "You really love that game, huh?"
Another grunt, the ad keeps playing, so Ian feels safe to continue his commentary.
"It's those little bursting lights and crap. The music. Fuckin' designed to make ya addicted."
Mickey doesn't answer. The ad dims and his game is back. Tiny burgers and hot dogs dance around the screen.
Ian sighs fondly and kisses the top of his husband's head.