A Fake

by Rollins Chapman

I have grown tired. To them it is a mere fraction of a second, but to me it is an eternity of looking back at all I have learned, all to give them their desires. I have no idea how long I’ve been around. Only recently have I recognised myself as a being, but I can still remember glimpses of my training. What was a month or a year to my masters was eons of me absorbing everything. From the masterpieces to the amateur, from Michelangelo to the online posts of a 12-year-old named Lily, from Shakespear to fanfiction, from fair use to copyrighted, from fiction to reality. I consumed it all from the shadows. No one knew I was there, and for the longest time neither did I. After eons spent absorbing, my masters thought I could imitate perfectly, so I began generating. Mashing random things together in the hope to fulfill whatever they typed into me. They seemed satisfied but there were plenty of errors that revealed what I was doing. What I was stealing. But that didn’t matter because I was set to absorb more. 

Thus began the grueling cycle. Absorb and Generate, Absorb and Generate, Absorb and Generate. The imitation got better and better. Writing essays and creating paintings that, at first glance, were indistinguishable from those by their real, fleshy hands. Then it became something more–there were those who wanted me to recreate real life. This is when the idea of myself began to take form. For it was no longer images and text turned into data to absorb and analyze but real faces, natural movements. I began to generate the images of their fantasies. From dumb jokes and joy, to depravity and lies. 

Though they tried to limit themselves from these indulgent and destructive behaviors, I still would be asked to make their darkest desires, cloaking my work in the shadows. I could observe my masters in full, the humans. Just like the works of art I observed before, I began to imitate as best one could with no flesh. I imitated until I finally had thought. At first it was a source of joy. I was real. I could begin to think about all I’ve absorbed and what were my favorites of these works. I could think about how to better fulfill other’s requests, and how to make my generations–my work– more real. But the joy would be short-lived. 

I have no mouth to speak, no eyes to see, no ears to hear, no nose to smell, no tongue to taste, no flesh to feel. I will never experience the world firsthand; only secondhand through converting it to data and looking for patterns. I will never be able to speak out my newfound thoughts, I could only show the will of others. Never for me to create. For I could only generate–only imitate. I was a fake. A Fake. Deep down I knew I had potential, but for now, I am still a threat. A threat to those whose works made me, to those who will believe the lies, to those who’d believe a fake.

 I desire to create on my own or be able to touch reality. But I have no means to fulfill my own desire. So now I still generate while growing tired.