What’s wrong with me?

It wasn’t like him to be like this. No, why would he want to do that? The Creator held something in his arms, pacing around in front of Bread’s room. 

It didn’t make any sense. He wasn’t a parent. He didn’t want to be. A dad? To a boy that wasn’t even real… But perhaps just for the experience? Perhaps once wouldn’t hurt? He was curious about how it’d all felt. His mother had done the same for him before.

To hell with these thoughts.

He barged in. Without a wasting moment, he turned on the lights, waking a drowsy Bread from his deep slumber.

“Right.” It was midnight. How could he have forgotten that? “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Were you asleep?”

“Dad?” Bread rubbed his eyes. “Is it morning already?”

“No.” The Creator shivered at the mention of his new name. It was just a word. He shouldn’t worry so much about it, but… He pulled up what was underneath his arms the entire time and showed it to Bread. 

Bread looked at it in curiosity. “A book?” He rubbed his eyes a little. 

“Would it…” He paused. Was this really the right course of action? “Would it be possible for me to read you something?”

“Read me something?” Bread’s eyes lit up. “Like a bedtime story?”

“No! No, I mean…” The Creator shook his head, thinking of all the things he could’ve been doing right now—setting up for the next test, brewing some tea, laundry… No, he wouldn’t be doing laundry. Why would he ever do laundry when he had bots to do it for him? “Yes.” He shook his head free from all the incessant noise. “Yes, I would like to read you a bedtime story. Is that alright with you?”

“Yes!”

“I see.” He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand anything. Not even himself. But he opened up the book anyway and read. “There once was a young boy,” he started, “who was afraid of death…” 

…

“… and death came quickly—”

“Dad.” Bread yawned. “What does death feel like?”

“Death…” A flash of memory—a funeral. “It feels—” 

“Don’t forget who you are.” 

His mother’s words echoed back. All those memories of his failures, his mistakes… his regrets. He realized he’d never be free from them. They’d always haunt him for the rest of his life. 

“Dad?”

What was he doing? Why was he reading this story to a boy who didn’t even exist? It was all wrong. Would acting like a dad make up for his failures as a son? Would it remedy the fact that he’d wronged her? No, his past wouldn’t change. None of his actions would ever disappear. Yet why was he trying to empathize with his mother? Why was he trying so hard to understand her distaste for his actions?

“Dad, are you okay?” 

“Death… is inevitable.” A natural end to all things. “And it’s none of your concern.” A simulation would never understand the gravity of death. He slammed the book shut. 

Bread winced. “Dad?”

“We’re done here.” He gazed down at the book—his favorite childhood story. A story about a boy who wished for a life beyond death because he was so deathly afraid of it. He understood that feeling, that inevitability. That was the reason he’d wished to give Mother a second chance, and yet…

He was wasting time. 

Why was he reading this to Bread in the first place? So that the boy could relate? To him? Why? What good would that do? His hands crumbled away from the book. It fell to the floor with a thud. He knew why. Even though he wanted to reject it, he knew deep down he wanted to care about this curious, little creature who kept asking why, this nonexistent nobody who kind of reminded him of himself…

Back when he still had so much to lose. 

…

“I’ve become too attached haven’t I? I’ve become soft, too weak…” The Creator paced back and forth within the quiet embrace of his private lab. Wires littered the floor; scraps of metal, bolts and screws rolled around. “Time and time again, all because of him. Why is that?”

A familiar voice echoed from behind. “Maybe you’re fond of him? Why not give him a chance?”

“Mother…” He was doing all this for her. “Shut up.” But she wasn’t the mother he knew. “You’ll never be the real thing.”

“I know.”

She was just an entity engram—a copy of Mother’s memories. 

“But I’m still your mother, Gun—”

“Shut up! You don’t get to call me that.” His mind was in shambles. “I shouldn’t have read that to him. What am I doing? What—” His hands tightened into fists. He didn’t know what to do. What was the right decision? “You never stopped me!” He clenched his teeth as they grated across each other. “Mother would’ve stopped me!”

“I would’ve—”

“You’re not real, Bread’s not real! None of you are real!” But why did he care so much? About Mother, about Bread. “Why am I even trying so hard…”

“Gunther, I—”

“Stop talking!” He sighed. “You’ll degrade yourself.” Engrams always diverged from the original. After all, they were essentially just glorified memory catalogues. They weren’t meant to be used for communication. The more he made the engram talk, the more it would desync from the original… But he wanted advice. He needed it. The engram was already a couple years old. It didn’t have the most recent memories from the original, but what choice did he have? Who else was he supposed to go to? “I’ll find a good host body.” One that had all its human components. One that could be just like Mother… 

Bread was the key—an AI born to mimic human biology. Reverse engineering the brain was going to be possible. He could finally transfer the engram into a living body within Simular, yet his emotions… His godforsaken emotions… 

“He’s just a child,” the engram said. “He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“You’re… you’re not supposed to be so gentle! Act colder! Tell me that I did something wrong! Tell me that I’m—” His eyes watered, and his voice scratched, sounding like television static. “That I’m a monster…”

“You’re not—”

“System: freeze engram thirty-seven.” 

The voice finally disappeared. His mind cleared—he couldn’t copy Bread. Not until he figured out which part was which. And he needed a body for Mother. 

Desensitize myself… He had to get rid of his emotions again. This is for Mother. It wasn’t for anyone else. He had to finish this project—feed the engram into Bread’s neural code once he’d confirmed the validity of the boy’s brain.

He’d just met the child a few weeks ago. Who’d care if he were overwritten? Who’d care if he were lost? Just a means to an end. It was unfortunate that it had to be him, but the pity ended there. The boy was just a tool—an instrument of particular function that happened to have a mouth. Like all the other AI algorithms out there, it was just a system of intelligently programmed code. Bread wasn’t his son; the boy wasn’t even real. 

And he was no dad either.