Writing by J. Thornbury

I write stories and essays that are commercially unviable, and therefore of no merit whatsoever. You can read them by clicking below.

• Who Would've Gone Nazi, an essay about society

• Artificial, a short story about being that kind of guy

If you nevertheless enjoyed my writing, you are welcome to send me a dollar so that I can eat. Or don't; you're not obliged.

• PayPal

Feel free to contact me if you have something to say.

• Email
• Bluesky

© Copyright J. Thornbury 2024 All Rights Reserved

Who Would've Gone Nazi?

By J. Thornbury

Over fifteen years ago I read an article by Dorothy Thompson, the famous American journalist and radio broadcaster who was the first to be expelled from Nazi Germany in 1934. “Who Goes Nazi?” (https://harpers.org/archive/1941/08/who-goes-nazi/) was published in Harper’s Magazine in August of 1941, mere months before America entered the Second World War.Please take the time to read through it — I’ll wait.Quite a good article, isn’t it?Sharply observed and salient, especially relevant to the 2020’s, perhaps her keenest insight was that Nazism isn’t restricted to any particular ethnicity, nationality, or social class. Thompson opined that there were even Jewish Americans who would have gone Nazi, but for being born to the reviled scapegoat of that ideology. She has since been proven entirely correct — judging by the photographs of laughing Israeli soldiers posing in lingerie stolen from the homes of Palestinians they ethnically cleansed, and by the videos of cheering Israelis hosting hilltop parties to watch the incineration of women and children by American bombs. Many of the participants in the Palestinian genocide hold American citizenship.I imagine her article caused quite a stir among its readership (and historians, please correct me if I’m wrong). It certainly stirred me. And how timely it was, given the furore that soon followed when Japan bombed Pearl Harbour! What introspection it must have prompted, among the cultured readership of the time.So of course, when it crossed my desk again – now in the aftermath of President Donald J. Trump’s re-election to power on a nakedly Christofascist platform, Project 2025 – I reread it. I found it just as compelling on the second reading. It remains a very good article.It is also dangerously wrong.

Understand — it wasn’t Thompson’s fault. She was an outside observer in Nazi Germany, and lacked the perspective we benefit from, perspective that her work has provided us. We today have the fortune of her warnings, and also the misfortune of living in Western societies that are actively, terrifyingly sliding into the embrace of Fascism. Thanks in part to her, we possess both an outside and inside view of the forthcoming terrors.Thompson didn’t know then that Operation Paperclip would facilitate more than one and a half thousand Nazi scientists, engineers, and technicians becoming American after the war (and these, only the ones we know about). While she may have had a concept of the atomic bomb thanks to the science fiction of H. G. Wells, back then she had no concept of the dispassionate cruelty that her own government would show in dropping those bombs on the civilian populations of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, solely for the purpose of intimidating the USSR. As a feeling human being, she likely can’t have imagined the demonic calculation in President Truman’s mind when he first approved the dropping of the bombs, and then directly approached Joseph Stalin to deliberately casually tell him about the forthcoming bombing and gauge his reaction — to which Stalin played ignorant, aware that showing understanding would embolden American aggression against his nation.^{[Footnote 1]}

We see more than Thompson saw, but it’s a curse, not a virtue.We now know far more about the fundamental character of the broader ideology behind Nazism than Thompson. We have seen it proliferate around the world, in hundreds, thousands of mutations, virulent and infectious, forever probing for lapses in society’s immunisation. We have contracted it — or rather, our latent infection has resurfaced, like shingles creeping out of the nerve clusters in the spine, long hidden there since its arrival as chickenpox.But her article was good. The point was important, and well made. So it seems fitting to revisit the premise now, with wider, more frightened eyes.

Let’s start with the word: Nazi. What a terrible word to use, today.Back when Thompson wrote, Nazi was the best word to use, referring to a particular political regime and its attendant ideology. Yet we in the present are burdened by close to a hundred years of propaganda that has, like ever increasing quantities of ice in soft drinks, watered down the word, flattened out its fizz, and robbed it of its richness.Today, Western cultural mythology is very clear: The Nazis were the villains of the Second World War, a uniquely vile group of conquerors driven by the monstrosity of peerless devils like Hitler, Goebbels, Göring, Himmler, and Heydrich. They were heroically defeated by the implacable moral rectitude of America and the plucky courage of the Brits, aided by a little help on the Eastern Front from the Soviets (which was the only good thing the murderous dictator Stalin ever did).Further, we are told that such Nazis as linger in the modern day are sad, metastasised cancers in otherwise healthy societies, easily remedied but for where they’re unconscionably nurtured by political opportunists. Nazis Sieg Heil! and have swastika tattoos; or they wear cheap suits and court controversy on social media to rile up roving gangs of bald men and criminal youths, in service to their holidays in Cyprus. In Britain, a prominent Nazi was invited on Question Time, and so was easily defeated through the disinfecting sunlight of public scrutiny.No, Nazi just won’t do. Nor will Fascism, another word that’s lost its bite.How did it lose its bite? Overuse, surely. Fascist! is – of course – an accusation thrown around too casually, often by hair-trigger lunatics on the fringes of society. Anyone who uses it is probably a sympathiser of other murderous ideologies, like Communism. Doesn’t everyone get called a Fascist, now, for the slightest provocation?That these words have been deliberately blunted, in order to protect from scrutiny the social and material foundations of our society, is unthinkable. We are not like them — perish the thought!Nor can we now gesture to the thing behind these words using the names of particular modern ideological movements, not without becoming endlessly mired in the sophistry demanded by the geopolitics of the moment. Quite aside from the public hectoring invited by using the names of specific states and parties in that way, using them also drags along whatever baggage has attached to those states and parties, baggage that can be and is wielded as a shield by their defenders.For all these reasons and too many, too tedious more, let us use another word. The ideology reduces to the virtue of strength and the contemptible failing of weakness, so let’s call it Muscularism; and its adherents, Muscites.Just be careful, when spelling that latter word.

What are the signature qualities of Muscularism?As I said, Muscularism’s central virtue is strength, and its cardinal sin is weakness. Strength is self-justifying because it has the potency to sweep away all opposition, and the act of sweeping away opposition asserts fitness to rule. Weakness is contemptable because it cannot justify itself, and exists only to provide justification to the strong through the act of being swept away. In this way, strength becomes more virtuous the more it is exercised, and it is more justly exercised the more it is exercised in contempt for the weak.Someone who has only a superficial grasp of this would perhaps look on strength being exercised with an attitude of contempt, and reasonably conclude that the cruelty is the point.The author Cormac McCarthy wrote a very powerful book about Muscularism: “Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West.” The book is a biblical account of the inherent flourishing of Muscularism across the human race, specifically told through the vehicle of the American frontier during the genocide of indigenous Americans.“War is the ultimate game because war is at last a forcing of the unity of existence. War is god,” McCarthy wrote, and further expanded, “It makes no difference what men think of war … War endures. As well ask men what they think of stone. War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner. That is the way it was and will be. That way and not some other way.”^{[Footnote 2]}

 
To the Muscite, everything is war, because war is how strength affirms itself. Even when they are talking, they are at play in service to war, because their talk is either the prelude to the assertion of strength or a proxy by which that same strength is being asserted. A Muscite talks to put himself in a more favourable position to enact his will, or to cow those who already recognise his strength, and thereby demonstrate his irresistible power.Through this, we can understand the words of Jean-Paul Sarte, who wrote, “Never believe that [Muscites] are completely unaware of the absurdity of their replies. They know that their remarks are frivolous, open to challenge. But they are amusing themselves, for it is their adversary who is obliged to use words responsibly, since he believes in words. The [Muscites] have the right to play. They even like to play with discourse for, by giving ridiculous reasons, they discredit the seriousness of their interlocutors. They delight in acting in bad faith, since they seek not to persuade by sound argument but to intimidate and disconcert. If you press them too closely, they will abruptly fall silent, loftily indicating by some phrase that the time for argument is past.”Why expand a virtue of contemptuous strength into an ideology of war? Because, as McCarthy put it, there is no further petition to a higher court. One person wins, and another loses, and only another, stronger participant entering the war can revoke that outcome. War proves strength, which is the highest, and only, virtue.But this telling of Muscularism obscures a more fundamental truth. Strength and weakness do not become virtues and vices automatically. Considered literally, is the powerlifter a better, fitter human being than the long distance runner? Not automatically. In order for these base, observable properties to become components of a moral framework, there’s another thing, a more basic foundation that’s required.Here, I may begin to upset you. I’m sorry.

What makes a person worthy? What determines the worth of a human being? How do you, the reader, answer that question?Supposedly, we live in a meritocracy. Perhaps we do not, but in the ideal world, surely there would be opportunity for people of greater merit to rise to prominence through demonstrating that merit, so that they might use their merits to the benefit of us all. We should be governed by the best of people. That would be best.…Do you know the origin of the word ‘aristocracy’? Today it refers to the class of aristocrats, but it used to be a word similar in character to words like ‘democracy’ (rule by the people) or ‘plutocracy’ (rule by the wealthy). Now, we understand aristocrats as people unjustly benefited by the happenstance of birth — many of them venal, almost all of them estranged from the lower classes over whom they may yet rule.Yet the word ‘aristocrat’ has its roots in ancient Greek, combining the word ‘krátos,’ which means ‘rule,’ with another word, ‘áristos.’Perhaps you can guess what ‘áristos’ means. The literal translation is ‘best,’ but it derives in turn from the word ‘arete,’ which was the concept of ‘excellence,’ especially the full realisation of potential or inherent function, and particularly excellence in moral virtue.Aristocracy, in its original form, meant meritocracy: they just had a different way of judging merit. And then, once the meritorious had justified and consolidated their rulership, they made it hereditary, which made their merit inheritable. So was born the class of rulers — the aristocrats, who would later become a punchline.Who usurped the aristocrats? The answer varies by nation, but in general the mercantile class who birthed Capitalism either bought them out or overthrew them. Which was clearly just and good, because as Adam Smith wrote in the Wealth of Nations, “Merchants are commonly ambitious of becoming country gentlemen, and when they do, they are generally the best of all improvers. A merchant is accustomed to employ his money chiefly in profitable projects, whereas a mere country gentleman is accustomed to employ it chiefly in expence [sic]. The one often sees his money go from him and return to him again with a profit; the other, when once he parts with it, very seldom expects to see any more of it.”^{[Footnote 3]}

 
All rulership justifies itself on merit. How merit is defined varies, but it is quite the coincidence that all societies are ruled by classes which exemplify both the spoken and unspoken traits that each society holds to be most meritorious.What do I mean by ‘unspoken’ merit? The meritorious traits that societies value are of two kinds: the fictitious merits that their society pretends to laud, and the actual merits that their society rewards but dare not admit. For this reason, rulers are said to be kind, wise, personable, and just; they are actually – speaking here of Western societies – effective, ruthless, cunning, obliging to their underlings, wealthy, and above all, strong.I invite you to pause here, and examine your darkest heart. Peel back the protective layer of the things you care about that make you a good person, and sit with the voice that whispers to you, like an anxious itch, when you’re navigating your social circle, your romantic relationships, your family, and your place in society. What traits does that voice say make you truly worthwhile? What are the traits you fear to admit, whether you possess them or lack them, that make you a winner — or a loser?Among those traits, do you value strength?What does strength even mean? Physical might? No, it’s power. The power to do as thou wilt, overpowering all opposition, or the power to resist what others will for you. Power manifests in many forms, but all forms reduce to this simple expression.Now please turn away from your hidden heart, and consider: power is just a fact. It’s a property that emerges from an observable configuration of social and material reality. We are all powerless to prevent a hurricane; we can usually exercise power over our breathing; we strive for the power to change the mood and thoughts of the people around us. It’s a thing that simply is or is not according to circumstance. Possessing power may be useful, in the same was as possessing anything might be useful – empowering – when fulfilling our desires.But why do some forms of power count as merit? Why does the power to take a life matter more than the power to make someone smile? Why does possessing a meritorious form of power make you a better person? In fact, why should possession of any quality make you a more or less worthy human being?Whenceforth comes human worth?And that’s what lies at the root of Muscularism: the idea that different humans are worth more, or less, than others. That human life has a relative value, and in having that value, that it can be reckoned and stamped on the person, turning them into a kind of currency^{[Footnote 4]}.

 
Human beings who have value are valuable; what is valuable can be traded; what can be traded has some equivalency; what is equivalent is replaceable; what is replaceable is disposable; what is disposable is, once it has outlived its usefulness, valueless.A person might be more or less powerful in some particular aspect of life – more talented, more intelligent, more beautiful – but the moment that power translates to their having more worth than another human being, the slide into Muscularism has begun. It’s all a slope, and the only question is degree.

You might have guessed where this is going.Thompson’s essay is dangerously wrong because it doesn’t reckon with this fundamental truth: Muscularism – the bigger thing, at large in the world since before the time of kings or the concept of ideologies – has as its foundations the very same worldview on which we base Capitalism.I’m going to define the various ideologies that are relevant to Muscularism and its incarnations, and I’m going to be specific, which means a bit jargony. Sorry.

• Capitalism believes human beings have relative worth. This worth is decided by the possession of Capital in the first instance, which is accumulated authority over economic production (and thereby subsumes the worth of all those who lack Capital and are forced to participate in economic production at the direction of the Capitalist). In the second instance, worth is decided by the individual’s realised capacity for economic production, which is the value that people who possess Capital assign to particular work (and particular workers). To restate, those who have Capital have more worth the more Capital they have, and those who don’t have Capital have more worth the more useful they are to those who have Capital.Capitalism requires coercion to maintain the exploitation of labour and ready flow of raw materials necessary to perpetuate itself. This means those without Capital must work or starve, and those who have resources necessary to Capital must surrender them or perish. The later the stage of Capitalism, the more apparent and brutal this coercion becomes, because Capitalist societies must always expand economic production — even as Capital consolidates into fewer hands (which require fewer workers to support), and fewer resources are available for production.Capitalist societies must expand economic production in order to remain stable. They must always do this, or else the consolidation of Capital into the hands of a few people calcifies power and prevents it being reassigned through competition to amass Capital. When this happens, ambitious people with Capital (and their ambitious subordinates) are forced to pursue power by other means — namely physical conflict. Capitalist societies therefore resort to war to continue the expansion of economic production and resolve the internal conflicts that arise from the consolidation of Capital.

• Liberalism is the ideology that grew in tandem with Capitalism, consisting of the implementation of Capitalism through the subjugation of those who lack the power to resist, subjugated by those possessing power. Liberalism does not outwardly justify itself through power, but through a fiction of meritocracy, which creates a friction between the perceived ideals of Liberalism and the reality of coercion under Capitalism. Stable Liberal societies slow and smooth the institution of Capitalism in order to maintain public consent for their ruling, meritorious class.In early stage Liberalism, power was not derived solely from Capital, but from the arrangement of the societies as they existed before transitioning to Capitalism (and this is where their particular form of meritocracy derives from). In late stage Liberalism, due to the accumulation and consolidation of Capital (and therefore concentrations of power that surpass that of the pre-existing societies), Capital and power increasingly become one and the same. This occurs at the same time as Capital accumulates to the point that it calcifies power structures.The combination of increasingly transparent rule through power, and power calcified into the hands of a few people, wears at the fiction of meritocracy through which Liberalism outwardly justifies itself to itself, heightening contradictions that then seek resolution.

• Muscularism believes human beings have relative worth. This worth is decided by strength, and those who are weak are contemptible. Strength is the whole of merit, and therefore rule should be by the strong. Those who lack strength are both weak and contemptible, the embodiment of vice, and exist only so that the meritorious may prove their strength upon them.

◦ Fascism is the incarnation of Muscularism that assigns merit to an in-group, usually an ethnic nationality, and designates an out-group as the embodiments of vice, usually an ethnicity. The economic system of Fascism unfolds from these premises via Capitalism, and the political reality of Fascism arises from the interplay of these two orders. Fascist polities inevitably pursue war, both to resolve contradictions in Capitalism, and to affirm their merit.

‣ The original Nazism was the incarnation of Fascism that assigned merit to white Germans who swore fealty to the Nazi political movement, and designated Jews as the embodiments of vice. The rest is historical record. Modern Nazism is the countless incarnations of Fascism that take their symbolism from the original Nazism.

‣ Christofascism is Fascism that uses a fascistic reinterpretation of Christian religious dogma to justify its assignment of its in-group and its designation of its out-group.

From this, we can see structurally why Liberalism decays, and why it has historically decayed into Fascism in several different nations. The ruling class of Liberal societies justify their rule through claims of meritocracy based on the merits of the society that preceded them, but they use increasingly harsh coercion to maintain Capitalism, and the consolidation of Capital calcifies power and ends social mobility. Those who are ambitious — which in Western society, everyone is implicitly taught to be — increasingly recognise that rulership is maintained through power, and that the existing order of society has trapped them without any.Now to this heady mixture, add the fact that many modern states are founded on land stolen from indigenous populations, the theft justified through some variety of Muscularism. Might made right, and so the European settlers genocided the indigenous Americans and founded what became the United States of America. So too did European settlers do the same to indigenous Australians and New Zealanders. So too, Israeli settlers are doing to the indigenous people of Palestine.Further add that the implementation of these genocides and the establishment of these states involved compelled labour, again justified through some variety of Muscularism. Whether chattel slavery, prison slavery, indentured servitude, or the economic repression of apartheid, labour was bleakly compelled.And now understand that the Liberalism that emerged in Western societies was forced to synthesise their version of meritocracy in a way that justified, say, colonial genocide and chattel slavery, before later adjusting their concept of meritocracy to paper over this period of history. Consider that the unspoken Muscularism that allowed slavery and genocide to take place was at first justified with the ideology of, say, Manifest Destiny, and that when this was papered over, the secondary merits derived from Manifest Destiny joined strength as unspoken merits still upheld by that society, but denied.In Liberal society, people are taught the virtues of strength, of power, but they are also taught the delicate state of repressing and denying them. Liberal democracies favour strong leaders, and they’re prone to stigmatizing out-groups, and they like to arrange themselves in hierarchies of worthiness that accord material benefits proportional to wealth — to power. But it’s dangerous to admit this is the order under which society actually operates, unacceptably gauche, because the implications are destabilising to society, and emasculating to the typical liberal citizen (who would have to admit they have little power of their own).They are also, by the by, quietly taught the virtues which upheld the past acts of slavery and colonialism. Perhaps not the ideologies, but certainly the superior and inferior statuses, the ruling and subordinate codes of conduct, the attendant standards of beauty and features of particular ugliness. How many children in America dream of having lighter skin? Straighter hair? How many business graduates are careful to maintain the norms of behaviour derived from the past and present cultural shibboleths of America’s ruling class? The attendant virtues and vices that racism proposes are alive and well, and will continue to be so, because anything that divides one human being from another makes those human beings easier to coerce, and so more pliant to Capitalism.Thompson couldn’t see all of this. It wasn’t her fault.But we can.

Thompson’s parlour game, wherein she looked around the room and imagined who would or wouldn’t go Nazi, remains very poignant. The problem is that, absent the larger context, she had no real definition of what allows someone to become a Nazi.An everyday person will become some variety of Fascist, including Nazi, when the following elements are in place:

That’s really all there is to it. If you are not a Fascist, you can go down that list and find the exact things that have not aligned to allow you to become a Fascist (perhaps steps seven, five, two, or one).As for members of the ruling class? They become Fascist because they either need a way to maintain power, or they have an ambition to acquire power that is stymied under the current order. This is just a variation of steps five and six.We’re not done, however. The title of this essay needs to be addressed.

Thompson asked the question “Who goes Nazi?” This is the wrong question.Who would have gone Nazi?Who would have become a Fascist of some kind, were it not for events outside their awareness, let alone their comprehension?I ask this because, inherent in the framing that I called out when I chose the word Muscularism, good people are taught that Nazis are the other. That they have some special deficiency of spirit — that they were born wrong, or have developed some ulcerous flaw in character for which they have received no remedy.They do not. They have no special deficiency.Oh, don’t get me wrong: they’re contemptible people. Pitiful, to a person. They are loathsome and vile company, decayed in spirit, mean of heart and dead in soul. They are consumed by passionate fear and rage that is masterless, making them easily riled by the spirit of the crowd, and together with their peers they form a roaring tiger that devours all around them, before finally turning on themselves.They are also achingly human, and totally ordinary. They want life to be beautiful, same as everyone else, and have become profoundly lost in their search for that beauty.Most of them are completely and utterly unreachable. They have been seduced, and their very sense of self is now so invested in their way of living in the world that accepting it’s wrong is accepting that they do not know themselves, and so do not meaningfully exist. Some might snap out of things, in the moment before the roaring tiger pounces on them and begins to gnaw off their face……And a rare few might wander away from the rally on their own, out into the dark, following long-dormant or perhaps never-before-kindled lights that have at last been lit or relit through proximity to steadier flames.Who would’ve been a Nazi? Look around the room.Then look in the mirror — because I would have been a Nazi. I can see it, clear as day.Had I not been born with two invisible disabilities; had I not been born queer; had I not suffered the loss of my mother when I was eleven; had my father not suffered a debilitating stroke that rendered him a poorer father than his nature already inclined him to be; had my family’s ability to care for one another not been shaped by my paternal grandfather’s experiences as a drill sergeant, and likely participant in atrocities, for the British Army; had my disabilities been caught and supported earlier; had I thereby spent more time focusing on my studies, and less talking to interesting people in the Student Union whose colourful character called to my crippling ADHD; had I not happened to walk by an anarchist occupation of one of the campus buildings and then spent an hour chatting to one of the students as they cooked curry in the kitchen; had I not been a year late graduating, and so entered adulthood right as the Great Recession hit full swing; had I not had to care for my father in his twilight years, and so had hours of free time as a carer in which to read and write and think; had I not been exposed as a child to the works of Terry Pratchett, David Gemmel, and L. E. Modesitt Jr., none of whom inoculated me against Fascism, but all of whom laid the groundwork for Ursula K. Le Guin and Kurt Vonnegut to reach me; had I not had the fortune to be born intelligent, and at least superficially likeable, and to pull together enough charm to have a string of girlfriends; had I not fallen by happenstance into the right associations at the right time as to encourage my growth of mind and spirit; had so many other things I cannot comprehend, let alone iterate, not happened.Had it all gone another way, I would be a Nazi. There, but for the grace of god, went I.

Knowing this is essential, because in the coming years you and I will be tested.We can still go Nazi — you have to see that, now. You have to be able to look at those ten steps, look at yourself, look at the world around you, and see very clearly how lucky you are to have bounced off the right people and the right situations for as long as you have.So too can our friends, our peers. So can those who know better. So can those who are educated in other ideologies.Want to know a bleak truth? Even Communism, which materially arose as a reaction to Capitalism, proceeds from the same worldview of relative human worth.I’m not joking. Communism proposes a different method of reckoning human worth than Capitalism does: merit accrues to the worker who, receiving the full value of their labour, surrenders that value to the welfare of all society. It claims, justifiably, that this is a fairer reckoning than the possession of Capital. Yet it has frequently failed in practice… because it still relies on that assignment of worth, and thereby facilitates the accrual of power to a few through demonstration of merit, providing a mask of meritocracy that can hide the practice of some form of Muscularism. Simultaneously, the assignment of merit creates a class who are meritless. We who consider Communism should be careful to remember that the USSR^{[Footnote 5]}, so its representatives claimed, had no invalids, no one incapable of work.

 
This is not to say that Communism (or Anarchism, or whatever ideology or unconsidered belief has saved you from falling to Fascism) isn’t worthwhile. You must be the judge of yourself. I have no quarrel with your sincere desire to envision a better world: only this note of caution.Unless you can fix in your heart that all human beings are equally worthy in their humanity — even the most depraved and murderous, in spite of the fact that they are wicked and the reality that they must be opposed; unless you can do this, and keep to this principle, and set it as a pole star in the sky to guide you, and work tirelessly to uncover and embody the virtues its light reveals; unless you can accomplish this……Then in the wrong circumstances, under intolerable pressures, and with hate in your heart — then you, too, can fall down.

And if you have fallen down, and yet by some miracle are still reading this, please know that at least one person still loves you for who you might yet choose to be — even as you feel you must hate me, and even as I have to oppose what you’re doing, now that you’ve joined the roaring tiger.Strength is not the cardinal virtue. Violence, and the death it rests upon, are not the final answer.We choose what matters. We choose what is true.We don’t choose what is scientific fact, which cannot be true (but which is instead theoretically substantiated as objective scientific fact through repeated observation). We do choose what those facts mean, and what facts mean is the whole of truth.We choose the truth by what we choose to believe, what order we form from what we see. We choose the truth by what we choose to invest ourselves in, and so what we choose to make part of ourselves. Our truth upholds us in the world, if we uphold it to the world.And so, you’re free to decide this essay is nonsense.But I choose to believe that, deep down, part of you knows better.Who would’ve gone Nazi? All of us.You can always choose to be someone else.

Footnotes

The selection criteria for the targets is illuminated by the Minutes of the second meeting of the Target Committee, Los Alamos, May 10-11, 1945 (https://www.dannen.com/decision/targets.html):

7. Psychological Factors in Target SelectionA. It was agreed that psychological factors in the target selection were of great importance. Two aspects of this are (1) obtaining the greatest psychological effect against Japan and (2) making the initial use sufficiently spectacular for the importance of the weapon to be internationally recognized when publicity on it is released.B. In this respect Kyoto has the advantage of the people being more highly intelligent and hence better able to appreciate the significance of the weapon. Hiroshima has the advantage of being such a size and with possible focussing from nearby mountains that a large fraction of the city may be destroyed. The Emperor's palace in Tokyo has a greater fame than any other target but is of least strategic value.8. Use Against “Military” ObjectivesA. It was agreed that for the initial use of the weapon any small and strictly military objective should be located in a much larger area subject to blast damage in order to avoid undue risks of the weapon being lost due to bad placing of the bomb.

The key line here is “making the initial use sufficiently spectacular for the importance of the weapon to be internationally recognized” — so as to be recognised by who, specifically? America’s allies knowing that they had such a bomb held no tactical advantage. America’s enemies in the USSR and China knowing about the bomb was very obviously the point.No thinking person can read these notes and conclude otherwise than the bombing of two civilian targets was for the purposes of intimidating spectacle. This is further reinforced by Truman telling Stalin about the atomic bomb in advance, during the Potsdam Conference of July 1945.“On July 24 I casually mentioned to Stalin that we had a new weapon of unusual destructive force. The Russian Premier showed no special interest. All he said was he was glad to hear it and hoped we would make ‘good use of it against the Japanese.’”
     — President Harry S. Truman, Year of Decisions, Pg. 416.The Soviets were under no illusions about what was going on.“I do not recall the exact date, but after the close of one of the formal meetings Truman informed Stalin that the United States now possessed a bomb of exceptional power, without, however, naming it the atomic bomb.“As was later written abroad, at that moment Churchill fixed his gaze on Stalin's face, closely observing his reaction. However, Stalin did not betray his feelings and pretended that he saw nothing special in what Truman had imparted to him. Both Churchill and many other Anglo-American authors subsequently assumed that Stalin had really failed to fathom the significance of what he had heard.“In actual fact, on returning to his quarters after this meeting Stalin, in my presence, told Molotov about his conversation with Truman. The latter reacted almost immediately. ‘Let them. We'll have to talk it over with Kurchatov and get him to speed things up.’“I realized that they were talking about research on the atomic bomb.“It was clear already then that the US Government intended to use the atomic weapon for the purpose of achieving its Imperialist goals from a position of strength in ‘the cold war.’ This was amply corroborated on August 6 and 8. Without any military need whatsoever, the Americans dropped two atomic bombs on the peaceful and densely-populated Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.”
     — Soviet Marshal Georgii Konstantinovich Zhukov, The Memoirs of Marshal Zhukov, Pgs. 674–675.

• Back

• Back

• Back

One of the least easily understood passages in the book describes “an artisan and worker in metal” who labours through the night, in the shadow of the judge, seeking the judge’s favour by creating a false currency. The currency he creates is a specie – a form of tradable currency that isn’t coinage – made out of the discarded, valueless remnants of all human endeavour. The specie is also described as having a face. He does this to make the valueless remnants of human endeavour valuable in the present day markets where humans trade.What currency has a face, but isn’t a coin? A human being, who has been assigned a value. What is the figure doing? He’s trying to make the things discarded by industry – love, kindness, human interbeing – valuable in the eyes of the judge, so that the people who embody them will no longer be discarded. But the judge is pitiless, for Muscularism values nothing but strength, which makes his efforts a false currency in the judge’s eyes. His labour to prove the worth of the things that make us humane will never be judged worthwhile. “Of this is the judge judge and the night does not end.”

• Back

• Back

Post Script

By the way: I'm writing a novel. It's relevant to what I wrote here. It'll be free.When it's ready, you'll be able to read it on this website. Since you reached the conclusion of this essay, I hope you'll take the time to read the novel when it's done, too.While waiting, why not read a short story?

• Return

Artificial

By J. Thornbury

With thanks to Tom, who was patient.

He never really thrived in school. It wasn’t just the academics, where he rarely got better than a B, for which it was often said “If only you applied yourself…” No, he never did that well socially, either, being slightly too nerdy for the cool kids, slightly too plain for the cute girls, slightly too desperate to have fun for an invite to parties. He knew this, deep down.Not that he did badly, though. He had a girlfriend, until she broke up with him; and he did alright in track and field, though he didn’t like the demands — “If only you had the discipline…”Most importantly, he wasn’t one of the weirdos. He wasn’t a theatre kid, or in the band, prancing and parading around like a bunch of queers. He wasn’t like the weeb, Michael, who spent all his time writing crappy stories about his animes. He wasn’t like Sarah, the ugly girl who spent all her time sitting alone in the canteen, scribbling with her coloured pencils.And he definitely wasn’t anything like that one kid – what even was his name? – who wore cat ears and meowed and got beaten up in front of the lockers, but who never took the hint, and kept on flying his freak-flag.No, school sucked. He’d been eager for college, to drink and party and finally flourish. Or so he told himself. When he finally got accepted – not at an Ivy League, but quotas had screwed him out of a place there – the reality hadn’t lived up to his expectations. The other students at State hadn’t been as cool as he’d expected, hadn’t been interested enough to listen to the important things he thought about, hadn’t been willing to see the value in him. And at the parties he tagged along to, people just got drunk.He’d had friends, even a couple more girlfriends. He graduated just a little later than he’d have liked. It wasn’t so bad; at least he had a real degree.…Not that it counted for much. No one was hiring. Physics with a minor in Business should have got him a job, for sure, if the economy didn’t suck. Who wouldn’t want someone who was smart, and who knew how the world worked?Yeah, living with his parents again felt humiliating, more so when he took a job at Lowe’s to keep his student loans off his back. “If only you’d learned a trade…”He deserved more.

Life was funny. If he hadn’t bought in when Ethereum was high, he wouldn’t have been having a sleepless night, and he probably wouldn’t have been fucking around on the right kind of subreddits to see the announcement post.“The fuck is a ‘generative model?’” Even though he was a smart guy, the text flew over his head. But the picture was cool, kinda weird and trippy, lots of bright colours. He clicked through, started reading, followed the link, stared at the blank screen and the blinking cursor in the text box.He could write anything?

Spongbob with big tits

The AI paused, as though thinking, or perhaps reluctant. Then, it dutifully complied.“No fucking way!” He half-leapt out of his chair; it really worked.

The Joker drinking tequial wtih Jack Sparrow

The grin on his face felt goofy. But fuck it, this was magic. He copied them right away, opened Discord, sent them to his college buddies.“Check this out.”They didn’t reply immediately. It was 3 am, and they had jobs. So he went back to entering prompts, tried some more stuff out, added adjectives, described a background.About thirty minutes later, he paused. His fingers hesitated, then fluttered against the keys.

A young women, 18, blonde hair, bluest eyes, nice ass, big tits, thin, on a beach, trpoical island

Beholding the result, he swallowed hard. He didn’t have the words to describe what he felt. It was more than cool: it was awe. He felt like it must feel to see god. Maybe, to be god. Whatever he could describe, he could create. Whatever he wanted. Whatever he willed. And that made him feel...A few hours later, Discord blinked with a notification — a reply from Gregg.“lol that’s funny, wheres it from”His answer was confident. “I made it.”

Ground fucking floor!The tech moved fast, each iteration of the AI superior to the one that came before. He learned how to better word his prompts, then how to refine the models, tweaking their generative biases by training them on new learning material he discerningly collected from Instagram and Twitter. Speaking of which, who’d have thought Sarah would end up as a graphic designer?Well, not for long. He was a better artist than her, now. She was stuck in the past, painting by hand, using primitive tools. Everyone like her needed to embrace the future. Her production would be way more efficient if she used AI to prototype her designs.Plus, her stuff was all boring, lots of pastoral scenes, landscapes, people holding hands. Her women were all unrealistic, too, though that was just the market: there was always money for woke if you didn’t have talent.But him? He had talent. He had some money now, too. He’d diversified pretty quickly – figuring that writers were going to be redundant in six months or so – and started work on generating a few books. They’d sold quickly, helped by the quality, professional-level covers he could make. The refunds had stung, but early reviews were promising; once the tech caught up, he’d make some real money, and until then they were a good proof of concept for his side-line in teaching Prompt Development.And thanks to all of this, his Twitter account had taken off like a rocket. A hundred thousand followers, which meant regular commissions; and that meant his name was mentioned in some news articles. Sure, there were haters, but those Luddites didn’t matter, or at least wouldn’t matter for much longer.Even his Ethereum was on the way back up. He was finally making it. It was his turn to shine.

“So, explain why you’re right for this position.”He did his best to look confident in his shirt and tie, absently fidgeted with his shorts just out of sight of the camera. “Well, let’s talk about what this position needs,” he hedged, his eyes flicking over the job listing on his third monitor. “Your company’s model is based on a game economy that needs new booster sets released frequently, and new sets means you need new cards. The issue with new cards is they have to be carefully tested, right? People are attracted by the characters, the art, the story, but they stay because the game is fun to play. It feels well-balanced.”Though they were nodding, he could see he was losing them. Time for the pitch. “This is where I can add value. Which is more cost effective? Spending on old-fashioned art, which is slow and needs a lot of run-up; or hiring a new kind of artist, someone who knows the modern tech and has a fast turnaround? I can iterate quickly, create assets that fits the cards, making art for prototypes and then remaking it for final editions — which lets you focus on getting the game right. That just makes more business sense.”“Right…” The lead interviewer beckoned him onward. “But why you, specifically?”“Oh, well, as you can see from my resume, I’ve been involved in the profession from the start, and my work’s even been exhibited in a few galleries. People like what I make, including in your game’s subreddits, so I’m a proven quantity. And the key to my success is that I really understand the technology. I can train a model on your existing art assets, to develop a solution that fits the existing house style. It’ll be a seamless transition.”This had the panel back on his side, all but one of them nodding. Another was even smiling – a woman introduced without a title, just Claire – and she leaned toward her camera as she spoke. “So you have a background in developing multi-modal Large Language Models? Have you worked with OpenAI?”“I’ve used their models,” he replied, “and the math I covered in my degree is pretty helpful in making the most out of their work.”“But, have you designed a model of your own?”“I’ve trained models, yeah–”“Sorry,” she cut in, looking unapologetic. “I’m asking if you’ve got any background in the design and development of the underlying technology?”What was her deal? “Well, AI is a big area, and that’s not my specific speciality. I focus on knowing how to get the most out of the whole field as it develops. I don’t tie myself down to one particular piece of technology, but focus on staying current, staying agile, and remaining responsive to market needs... like yours.”The others seemed to be waiting for her response. She gave a hesitant nod.“I think that’s what we’re looking for,” the lead interviewer continued. He was on side; he clearly got it better than she did. “We don’t have the resources to start competing on that level. We’re not Disney... not yet!”Almost everyone on the screen laughed, and he faked laughter along with them as he waited for the next question.“Alright, I think we’ve got a good idea of where you’re coming from. You’ll be joining Bob’s team, so... over to you, Bob?”Bob had a worse camera the others. Beneath the pixels he was an older guy, bald on the top, white hair trimmed short around his ears, a small pair of spectacles perched on his nose. The only one who hadn’t laughed, he looked like he sounded; unconvinced by everything. “Without meaning to sound negative, there’s a lack of relevant industry experience on your resume. Can you talk about working to brief, and what you see the major challenges are in team collaboration?”“Yeah, of course. And I don’t take that as negative, not at all. I know I’m new, and just getting my feet under the table.” He spoke to buy himself time to think, his lips feeling tight. “So I hope you take it the same way when I say, that’s kind of the point. This is a new opportunity, a whole new way of working, and no matter who you hire as a Prompt Engineer, it’s all going to look thin on paper.”“I don’t think unfair to tell you,” Bob answered, “that we have other candidates with industry experience.”“But the trade-off for that is they won’t have the same depth of experience in this new tech. And the whole point of hiring someone for this role is to get ahead of the new, not to go over the old. Anyway, you asked about briefs, so let me talk about the work I’ve done for clients–”“And team working.” Bob had folded his arms. “Collaboration.”“Well, while I won’t pretend I’ve done as much teamwork as I’d like, my pace of production balances it out. As a junior team member, I’d hope there’d be support for my learning as I get up to speed, and in return, I’m very keen to share my skill set with other artists.”The lead interviewer seemed excited by that. “Do you have experience teaching?”He relaxed: that would do it. He had the job. “Certainly. Let me talk about the school I founded, the AI Institute for Engineering in Art and Design…”

His co-workers hated him. Bob clearly wanted him gone. But they were all dinosaurs, and AI was the meteor: it was time for the rise of the apes.And as apes went, he knew he was a leader — a Caesar, throwing dice across the Rubicon.…Anyway, it didn’t matter how they felt about him. In the first few weeks he’d focused on training a model on the house art, and had made a point of getting it demoed to everyone, especially some chief officers from the C-suite. When they saw how quickly it could make card art, he was golden. Let Bob complain about the number of fingers and the edges of the hair; as long as the game was good, nobody would care about minor details.“We’re selling an idea,” he reassured Bob. “As long as the idea is there, people will love it.”“So… you’re more of an ‘ideas guy?’”He didn’t like the way Bob smirked when he said it.

Things were going good. Great, even. He was well paid, he had a professional title, and his following on X was truly massive. Even his investments were back in the green.Yet, despite it all, he still found himself staying up late into the night, browsing Reddit again, listlessly clicking his way through the small hours. At least he was talented enough that lack of sleep didn’t really impact his job performance.He had almost everything he wanted. But what he needed... he didn’t know. He wasn’t even sure if what he wanted and what he needed really were the same thing. He supposed they had to be, right? He was doing way better than most. It’s not like life came with a manual.On a whim, he went back to Facebook, scrolled through his timeline, looked for people he remembered from back in the day. Sarah was the most prominent, and the most vocal, part of a class action lawsuit, designated a ‘representative plaintiff.’ That figured. Those who could, did, and those who couldn’t, well — they kept the lawyers happy. Her posts were all about the social dangers of AI, but really they were about grievance, about anger at a world she thought she deserved that had been snatched out of her hands.Pathetic. He dropped a single emoji reply, then unfollowed her.The rest of them were just depressing. All the cool kids had become boring normies, working nine to five just to raise children that all looked the same. Their endless smiling pictures couldn’t hide the emptiness at the heart of who they were. Though, surprisingly, weeb Michael was living in Japan, and seemed to be dating a hottie. Looked like he had a teaching gig? Not anything important, just teaching kids how to speak English. Pretty weak stuff, but he supposed at least Michael had gone somewhere different with his life. Perhaps that was–A notification blinked: a new follower.On Facebook? He was almost never active on Facebook — it had to be spam. But when he looked at the full notification, his eyebrows raised, finding his new follower was a pretty girl, her makeup dramatic, her smile playful. Her profile looked real, too, and he recognised the landmarks in her photographs from nearby.What the hell, why not? He dropped her a wave.She answered a moment later. “Hey. Saw your reply on Sarah’s post.”Ah, damn. She was looking to fight with–“Figures. You’ve really made something of yourself, haven’t you?”...Well.He sat up a little straighter, thought hard about what to write. He had some rizz. He knew how to make an impression.Squaring his shoulders, he gave it his best. “Yeah, I’m pretty impressive. In lots of ways… *wink*"Her eye-roll emoji was nearly instantaneous.He swore, went to type, hesitated, then opened a new window in the browser. He pulled up a prompt for text generation, one he’d used when writing his novels.

Pretend that you are a smart, sophisticate, charismtaic man working as an Prompt Engineer Artist for a well known video game studio. You are exchanging messages with an female admirer on Facebook Messenger. Complete the folloing transcript with a reply that will recover from the foo pah you have made and make you look good to the girl

The trick was flirting smarter, not harder.He copied over their conversation, hit send, then waited. The result made him frown, and he ran the generation a few more times, until he finally had something he liked.Carefully, he retyped each character. “...And not so much in others! But thank you very much for your kind words.”There was a pause, as though she were considering whether to continue, and then she replied. “You’re different. I remember you being quiet in school.”They went to school together? That explained things. This time, he wrote without the AI. “Yeah, just wasn’t my scene. I couldn’t really be who I wanted to be. Kinda sucked lol”“I feel you,” she agreed, answering much more quickly. “Everyone there sucked. They always said ‘be yourself,’ but nobody wanted to help you find yourself.”Her words had a strange effect on him, making his thoughts freeze.
His eyes flicked back to her profile. Luna? He didn’t recognise the name. She was hot, though. Way hotter than he thought at first. He licked his suddenly dry lips, answering nervously. “I’m going to be honest, I don’t remember you that well. I guess you were quiet, too?”“Probably good you don’t remember. I was cringe.” She was still typing. “From your job, I guess we’re in the same city? Wanna grab a coffee?”Slowly, he smiled.

In the end, a clash with Bob was inevitable. What was insulting was that he tried to pretend it was for his job performance, rather than because he feared the future.“The work speaks for itself. He’s simply not able to follow revisions.” Bob tapped a stack of printouts with his pen, each of them a piece of art that he’d red-lined and sent back with changes. “I was open to giving this a try, but we just can’t work with this garbage.”The Chief Operating Officer and a woman from Human Resources were sat with them around the table, sat between them both, arbitrating the dispute. He knew that a member of the C-suite being present meant that this wasn’t a simple firing: he had a chance to make his case. So, he kept his mouth shut, let Bob take his shot.Although, Bob had nothing more to add. He sat quietly as the COO reached for the exhibits, examined the red lines and notes with a disinterested eye; the executive dropped the papers back to the table and spread his hands, making eye contact with each of them, affecting neutrality. “Can anyone explain?”Time to fight back. “Well, I can, but Bob isn’t going to like it.”Folding his hands around his pen, the old artist snorted. “Don’t patronise me.”Before HR could interject, he gestured to Bob, spoke quickly and calmly. “This is what I was telling you about. I’ve been dealing with this since I came on board.” He turned to address the COO. “As I tried to explain to Bob, AI involves new ways of working. We don’t make careful adjustments to a single piece until it fits a constrained vision; the nature of the technology allows you to quickly make a few hundred different iterations, each with tweaked parameters, until you hit on something that fulfils the brief.”The COO was listening very carefully. “Like monkeys on typewriters?”“Well, there’s more skill to it than that, but yes, you’ve got it. It’s a whole new world. New times mean new methods.” He shrugged, and lowered his hand. “But Bob isn’t willing to change the way we work to fit the times.”Bob tapped his pen on the table, hard. “Because your work is crap.”“Bob,” the HR rep interrupted, her tone soothing but firm, “while we all know artists can be passionate, we expect everyone to remain collegiate when expressing their grievances.”“It’s not a matter of grievance, Sheryl. It’s about the quality of the product we put out. Just look at the hands.”Bob getting frustrated meant that he was vulnerable. Speaking to the older man in a tone that sounded as though he was patiently making a concession, he moved in for the kill. “Future models will be better at minor details,” he assured him, “but this is the way the world is going. The old way of working is on the way out. It’s like evolution, the rise of the apes–”“Oh, bullshit.” Bob was exasperated. “You’re not some new breed, you’re just using a machine to ape the work of real artists.”Before HR could intervene again, the COO had stood up. “I think his art is fine.”Nonplussed, Bob blinked.The COO pulled his phone from his pocket, checking his messages while he spoke. “Our customers don’t sweat the small stuff. Art is inherently worthless — it’s price point that creates value. We own the marketplace, we set the price point, and people buy because they want what our brand represents.”While Bob was speechless, there was an opening to agree with management, and he seized it. “It’s the ideas people want, what their purchase says about them.”Faint amusement cracked through the COO’s facade. “You get it. And Bob…” He rounded on the old artist as he pocketed his phone “...Claire already decided this is the direction we’re going in. Get on board, or get out of the way, but don’t try to hold things up.”Defeated, falling back in his chair, the old man’s voice had become a sigh. “We can’t do this.”“If you can’t, that won’t be a problem for the board. Your call.”And that was the end for Bob.

He’d wanted to meet up at a Starbucks, but she insisted on a niche coffee place near the suburbs that he’d never heard about. A gay flag hung over the door on his way in, bright colours that stood out against the dim, cosy interior of old wood and worn leather, and he found himself on edge as he ordered a cappuccino from the intimidatingly muscular barista.“You meeting someone?” she asked him, waiting on the dripping espresso. “You look like you’re meeting someone.”He wasn’t sure what that meant. He nodded, paid by card, then sat by the window near the door.The place was busier than he expected. Nobody seemed to pay him much mind, which let him take his time examining them. Lots of bright hair colours, he noticed, and some of the fashion choices were louder than he was comfortable with. Still, the space felt happy despite the wokery, and the quiet babble of voices made him realise there was no music in the background, nor anything to regiment the mismatched tables and chairs. Even the art that hung on the walls looked painted by hand, though he smirked as he realised a few still had the price tags attached.“Hey dude.” A young guy in tight jeans had his hand on the back of another chair. “Mind if I take this?”He fumbled with his cup and saucer, set them down. “Uh, no. I mean, yeah. Go ahead.”The thankful smile lingered with him after the chair was gone. There was something–Then he saw Luna entering through the door, and he sat up nervously, smoothing down his shirt while she made her way to the counter. She was taller than he expected, and dressed in black, frilly clothes that he would have called goth, or perhaps alternative. Her long brown hair had a blue and pink streak through it, and her figure was curved, though he was relieved to see she wasn’t fat. Paler even than him, he caught a glimpse of her smile by the way her cheek curved as she chatted to the barista, and when she turned he saw she was wearing bright lipstick, which kept smiling as she noticed him and gave a funny little wave — her palm open, but her fingers curled, her fingernails matching the streaks in her hair.He waved back, then tried to sit casually, heart beating.“You’ve been at work?” she asked him as she came over, shifting the back of her skirt as she settled down on the opposite couch.Glancing down, he realised he was overdressed in business casual. “Uh, yeah, some overtime.”“Working weekends? That sucks.” She took a sip from her tea, the tapioca pearls swirling around as her lips moved the straw. “Glad you made it.” She jingled as she leaned forward and set the tea down, and he realised she was wearing a low collar, the bell glittering. Then she noticed him staring, and she gave him a big grin, batting at it with her hand. “You like it?”“You’re cute,” he answered, then blushed. “I mean, the collar is.”“First answers only.” She swung one booted leg over the other as she sat back. “This isn’t really your scene, is it?”“How can you tell?”“You wanted Starbucks, and now you’re on the edge of your seat.”Tensing, he glanced down again, then awkwardly shifted back.Which caused her to laugh. “Relax! You look like you’re in an interview.”The way she spoke, the friendliness in it made him breathe out, and he offered a weak smile. “I’m not… I don’t usually meet people in person. Outside of work, that is.”“Really? What about that school thing, from your timeline?”He lifted his cup, shaking his head. “All online.” He sipped, swallowed, trying to think about what else to say. “We’re moving to a digital culture. Pretty soon, places like this will be replaced by VR.”“That’s a sad thought.” Luna sighed, listlessly flicked her straw. “I don’t think you’re wrong, though. Rent’s getting really expensive. Independent places keep closing, and there’s not really good spaces for people to meet up. No– what were they called? Third spaces.”“What’s a third space?”“A space where you can be yourself, without needing money.”He shifted, mulling it over. “Why are they called third spaces?”“I dunno. I don’t really read much. I prefer videos.”“You know, AI video’s getting really good. Experts say that, in a few years, we’ll have custom films, tailored to include people’s favourite actors. Maybe even putting yourself in the film.”“So, what, I could star in Rocky Horror Picture Show?”“Sure. I’ve never seen it.”This incensed her, and her voice rose an octave. “You’ve got to see Rocky! Tim Curry kills.”Pretending to flinch back, he raised his hand in submission. “I’ll look it up! Promise.”“You better.” She snatched up her tea, shook it menacingly at him. Then she smiled as she sipped, reclining once more. “So, how’d life go after highschool?”Mirroring her recline, he sighed. “Well…”For the better part of thirty minutes he talked, and she listened, occasionally interjecting with comments that were agreeably sarcastic. As he described his time in college and intimated his struggles to belong, the sincere sympathy she showed him made him open up, and before long he was speaking animatedly, sharing everything that had gone wrong to an audience who was, much to his surprise, nonjudgemental.It felt strange, for his problems to be accepted without question, to be recognised as someone with so much to give but no opportunity to share. He would have thought it all made him a loser — had imagined it to all be prelude to his recent successes. But in telling it to her, for once he felt like his struggles were real, that circumstances beyond his control were to blame for his frustrations. She didn’t look at him like he was at fault, only heard him, and believed.When he started talking about AI, her expression glazed over slightly, but she still followed along. Luna seemed more interested in what it meant to him than in the technical details of the work itself, which he found odd, a strange and queasy feeling taking hold as he poured out his enthusiasm into her deep, sky blue eyes. The longer he spoke, the further away the rest of the room receded.“Do you have any other interests?”Her question brought him back into the room, back down to himself, caught off-guard as he repeated her words. “Other interests?”“Do you spend your time on anything other than AI?”He paused. “Well, I listen to podcasts.”“That’s cool; I like true crime. What about you?”“News, tech stuff. Updates in the world of…” He coughed, tried to move on. “But, what about you? What happened to you, after highschool?”That made her go still, pausing as she chewed on a pearl. She swallowed, and brushed her skirt out, slightly flushed. “I’m really very boring. I did an undergraduate in Computing Science, then a few internships before I found a job that stuck. These days I’m remote all the time, which suits me just fine.” She wasn’t looking at him, eyes on the plastic cup as she swirled it in her hands. “I didn’t really socialise much at college, either. I’m a bit of a stereotype. Apart from a few fandom meetups, I mostly spent my time online–”“Fandom?”She glanced up. “Furry. I went to Anthrocon a couple of times.”His mouth fell open, and then, to his bemusement, he found himself smiling. “You’re a furry?”“Not so much, these days.” She looked down at the collar around her neck, and blushed a little deeper. “I guess I still am. More an aesthetic, you know? I’ve always liked cats.”He nodded. Truthfully, it was all a bit weird for him, but she seemed cool. “I’ve never had any pets.”“It’s funny: I never had pets growing up, either. I think I had a hamster when I was young? I thought about getting a kitten, but when I started e I couldn’t really afford it, and now one of my housemates is allergic so it’s not really an option.”“…Started e?”She glanced up, quizzically. “Yeah? Transition is, like, fucking expensive.”All at once the openness and easiness evaporated, and he felt himself breaking out in a sweat, the room not so much closing in as spreading open, placing him on a stage with her for all the world to see, and point, and laugh. He looked away, though his eyes caught on the flag above the door, and he swallowed, tongue suddenly thicker than his mouth.“Hey, are you okay?”“...I’m sorry.” He stood up, stiff and awkward. “You’re really nice, but I’m not gay. I didn’t–”“What?” Her eyes, so alive until then, were suddenly wide, and the light in them dimming.“I didn’t know. About you. I thought you were a real– I wouldn’t have come on a date–”“This isn’t a date.” Her lips were pursed. “Shit, I just wanted to–”“Look after yourself,” he blurted, and bolted for the exit.He felt like he could feel everyone staring, that the world kept staring, long after he made it home.

The following Monday, he arrived at the office bright and early, eager to throw himself into his work — eager to remind himself of who he really was. Or, at least, to forget the humiliation, to bury it under the success that would surely follow now Bob was out of the picture. He’d applied for the new vacancy, and given what had been said in the meeting, he felt sure he’d be called in for an interview.What hope he’d held for promotion died in the first meeting, where the COO introduced their new team lead, an outside hire. Chase was young, wore his three piece suite with casual ease, and had a winning smile that matched his strong handshake, all the qualities that a manager needed to succeed. Yet he wasn’t a bad guy, and even made a point of singling out the accomplishments the team had made thanks to the work of their Prompt Engineer.When Chase had invited him for lunch, he’d been unsure what to expect.“Let’s get the boring stuff out of the way,” his manager said as the menus were taken away. “I don’t know the first thing about art. What I know, is how to work with people.”He nodded, uncomfortable, out of his element in an asian restaurant.“The way I look at it, you’re the one who’s going to drive our growth over the next quarter. Our CEO tells me you’re behind the software that makes our cards.”“Just the art. The game designs are–”“Sure, sure, the art. My point is,” Chase went on, “I see an easy division of labour here.” He gestured to him with both hands. “You’re the creative type.” He pointed to himself with his thumbs. “I’m the guy who makes things move. Which means you can handle the art, and I can wrangle the KPIs and keep everything on track.”“KPIs?”“Key Performance Indicators. Milestones? Look, it doesn’t matter.” He loosened his tie, leaning back. “I’ll make the C-suite happy, and you’ll handle all the creative stuff.”Slowly, he realised what was on offer. “You mean, I get to set the art direction for the game?”“Yeah, that sort of stuff,” Chase answered, between sips of sparkling water.“So I get to allocate tasks to the rest of the team, review their work, approve final–”“All of that, yeah. All I need from you,” he said, putting down his drink, “is a product delivered on time and a little below budget. Oh, and you keep training the rest of them. Our CEO was very clear — we want an AI-powered team in place before the end of the financial year.”“I can do that.” His mind was already weighing up the others, who to give the good jobs, who to freeze out. “Some of the others aren’t good with the tech.”“Well…” Chase leaned forward, and he did the same, listening as his manager spoke quietly. “Between you and me: I have targets for redundancies, and some budgets for new hires. You let me know who isn’t a good performer, and we’ll replace them with someone who can get the job done. That work for you?”Between them, the new head of the art department had offered his hand, an expensive watch gleaming on his outstretched wrist.Without hesitation, he shook it. “Does this mean I’ll be in the community videos?”“I don’t see why not,” Chase answered, his eyes on the approaching appetisers.

Unfortunately, the marketing team had other plans for community content after Bob’s departure, which meant an end to the behind-the-scenes videos. There would be no more in-progress videos – which made sense, as they no longer painted the cards the old-fashioned way – and strictly no staff were to appear in videos. The focus, it had been decided, was to be placed purely on the brand characters, with voiceovers recorded by the characters themselves.Which led to Chase asking him if they could find an AI alternative to hiring voice actors. Unfortunately, when it came time to demo the work, the legal department shut it down, citing conflicts with the recording artists’ union.Still, progress continued apace elsewhere. In just a few short weeks they brought on a series of junior artists who – fresh out of college and with plenty of debt – were more than willing to take the plunge into working with AI, and not at all squeamish about touching up illustrations to avoid senseless backlash from the community. Most of the gripers in the department quickly found other jobs, and the rest buckled down to the new job, at least the ones who knew what they were doing. The ones who couldn’t get with the program were gradually let go in the months that followed.For him, it was a triumph. He was vindicated. He had won.

He’d been watching a stream when Chase tapped him on the shoulder.“Hey, meeting down the hall in five.”Nodding, he went back to the video feed, watching the event wrap up. The CEO was giving the keynote speech before a conference on the future of AI in the creative industry. Much to his annoyance, Claire was taking credit for the work that he had pioneered, articulating a vision for the future where streamlined companies could leverage AI to produce more content, more quickly, at lower costs. She knew all the right buzzwords, and spoke as though she were fluent in the intricacies of generating art, passionately making the case for the alignment of artistic pursuits with business needs.Some of her words, he realised, were his. He’d said the same things, to her face, in the interview.Angry and dismayed, he closed the browser, and checked his calendar.…He’d been block booked for the rest of the day, no topic given, no attendees listed. Whatever the meeting’s topic, it seemed important.As he arrived in the room he was surprised to see Chase seated across the table, joined by the COO, and Sheryl from HR.“Take a seat.”Slowly, feeling rising dread, he did as he was told.After a pause, he asked, “Is something wrong?”Sheryl slid some papers across the table to him. “If you could sign these papers, we’ll make this as quick as possible.”With trepidation, he read them over, their meaning unclear. “What’s this–”“We’re downsizing.” The COO spoke coolly, his hands steepled together. “We feel that your role has reached the end of its natural lifecycle.”“You’re firing me?” He blinked, looking to Chase, who impassively returned his gaze. “But, I made the generative model–”“Works great.” The COO's tone was flat. “You did an excellent job.”“The new hires–”“They’re all up to speed,” Chase confirmed. “You finished training them on Wednesday.”Numb, he struggled to pick up the pen. He held it awkwardly, as though seeing it for the first time.
Eventually he found his voice again. “But, there’s so much I can do for–”“What, exactly?” Now the COO looked irritated. “What more can you do? We have whole team of agile artists who can do what you do. And unlike you, they’re skilled in traditional art, which makes them more useful.”Chase leaned back. “Your services aren’t needed any more. It’s a compliment — I mean it. You did such a good job setting everything up, we’re ready to move on to our next phase.” He smiled his winning smile. “Look, let’s keep it simple. Sign the paperwork, and you can put me down as a reference for your next job. There’s no need to make it unnecessarily personal.”“...Does Claire know?”Looking at him with pity that bordered on contempt, the COO folded his arms. “Why do you think I’m here? We appreciate your service, but it’s time you moved on. Sign.”And that was the end, for him.

He tried talking to his friends about what had happened. Not the ones on X — he couldn’t bring himself to announce his departure there. He reached out to his buddies from college, tried to explain what had happened, what it meant.Their replies were kind. “that sucks man. commiserations. time for bigger and better!”They didn’t understand.As the shock wore off he told himself he would be alright, that his firing was just the way of the world, and that a new job was waiting for him. He sent out applications, only to be met with silence; when he eventually gave in and reached out to his followers, hardly anyone replied, and nobody knew about any open positions that suited his talents.Even recruiters ignored him. All save one, who recommended he develop additional skills, perhaps in software development, or art and design.And the thing that broke him, the thing that made him laugh and laugh until he was crying, had nothing at all to do with his career: it was the red line he saw when, sleepless, he logged on in the middle of the night, and saw that Ethereum was falling, crashing down after a record high.

“Can we talk?”He stared at the message after he sent it. He almost hadn’t.Minutes passed.Finally, Luna replied. “Why do you want to talk to me?”He hesitated. He hadn’t expected Luna to write back. He’d been surprised that Luna hadn’t blocked him, and now that Luna had asked, he realised he didn’t know what he wanted, or what to say.More in habit than thought, he opened a new browser window, navigated to a fresh prompt, and began to write.

Pretend that you are a smart, sophisticate, charismatic man recently employ–

He stopped.When he started typing again, it was directly to Luna. “I don’t know. I got fired.”There was no reply.“I got fired and I’m sorry.”The message showed as read, but Luna said nothing.“I don’t know who else to talk to.”Minutes passed.He wiped his face, stood, and walked away from his desk.Then the ding of a reply filled the silence, and he stumbled back to see the answer.“I shouldn’t talk to you. But… you sound bad. 6 tomorrow, in the park by Equal Grounds?”

The sky was overcast when he found the small park, and not long after he took a seat on a rusted bench it began to rain. His coat wasn’t suited for wet weather, but he didn’t mind. The cold, the damp, the feeling of it all — everything suited him, just fine.Luna was better prepared for the weather than him, wrapped up warmly in funerary darks, begloved, a wide and heavy umbrella casting a shadow over him.He heard a sigh. “Yeah, this is miserable.”Steeling himself, he looked up. Luna was looking down on him with sad eyes, guarded and sympathetic.After a moment, the umbrella angled forward, taking him in from the worst of the rain. “Want to grab a coffee?”He looked where a gloved hand pointed, to the coffee shop he had all but ran from when they last met up. It was open, and it was warm, but the thought of the people there remembering him made him feel–“Or we can talk here, like a pair of weirdos. Your choice.”His eyes studied… her face, he admitted to himself. Her face. She. A woman who cared, or who at least had time for him. As a friend, which was what he wanted. What he needed.Nodding, he slowly stood, and let her lead him into the coffee shop, where she sat him in the back among the bookshelves. She returned with the same boba tea she had drank before, and had remembered he drank cappuccino, setting it on the table on front of him.They were quiet. In fact, the shop was quieter, fewer customers today, fewer customers to sip and chat and laugh together in the circles of friendship they made from tables and chairs that had once been discarded, before being reclaimed.“I’m not gay.” He didn’t know why he said it; he just felt he ought to.“I don’t give a shit.” She looked annoyed at him. “Who cares? Who gives a fuck. Do you think being in here, drinking a coffee with me, makes you gay?”When he tried to look at her, she was blurry. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know anything.” He closed his eyes, but his mouth kept moving. “I thought I had it all figured out. I thought I’d made it. I thought I meant something. I thought I mattered. I thought people finally noticed me. I thought they saw what I could do. I thought I was for real–”He stopped, sniffling, and realised she had moved to sit beside him, her hand on his wrist.He shook his head, not daring to look at her. “And I thought you’d ignore me. I thought you’d be cruel. I thought–”“You’re a fucking idiot.”Startled, he met her gaze.Luna looked upset, in more ways than he could understand. “I’m pissed off at you. You’re a stupid, ignorant, narcissistic man, and some kind of bigot.”He wanted to pull away — yet she squeezed his wrist tighter.“And you don’t even realise how completely fucked up it is to reach out to me, to use me for support after what you said, just because you’re in a dark place and struggling. But,” she took a deep breath, “I don’t think you know any better. And I don’t think you like yourself. Which makes me really worried that you’ll hurt yourself.”“Why?”“Because you haven’t shaved in days, and you smell like you haven’t showered either.”“Why do you care?”That threw her, and she slowly let go of him. She searched for an answer as the rain drummed on the windows, struggling to find one as the steam from the espresso machine whistled over it.At last, she gave up, and her lips twisted in a wry smile. “Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m just doing what I feel I ought to. Maybe I’m faking it.”“It feels real.”“Then I guess it is.” She shrugged. “Real to you. Real to me, too, though you don’t deserve it. But I guess nobody really deserves anything in life.”They lapsed into silence. The coffee cooled, and the tea warmed.A question he felt he could answer came out of nowhere, demanding he ask it. “Who were you? In highschool.”She winced. “They called me Cody.”He could feel his own blank expression.Sighing, she raised her hands above her head, miming cat ears.“Oh. I thought so.”“You’re pretty oblivious.”“Yeah.”That earned another, small smile from her. “Well, at least you know it.”He slumped. “I’m such a loser.”“Been there.”“I just… I thought I mattered, you know? I thought… I had something real.”“You keep saying that word. I don’t know what you mean by it.”Looking up at her, he gestured at nothing. “You know. Like, being for real?”“I know people say that. What I don’t know,” she said, reaching for her tea, “is what it means to you. What does being real mean? Why is it so important, to be real? What’s wrong with being a fake, being artificial? Who even decides what’s fake and what’s not?”He watched her sucking on her drink, the question turning over in his mind.“Is being fake a fuck-up? Why? And who cares? Who cares what someone else thinks, so long as it’s real to you? Isn’t it what we put into something, that makes it real?”“But, it’s about success, it’s about meaning something–”“What does it mean to be a success? Everyone’s a failure at something. And earlier,” she carried on, chewing on a pearl as she spoke, “you said you thought you mattered. To who? Because who matters and who doesn’t isn’t– there isn’t a list of people who matter, or a list of people who don’t. Not outside. The people who matter are inside; you choose them, though you don’t always get to decide.”“I don’t understand…”“Why did your job mean so much to you?”“Because it meant… it meant I… was worth…”“Worth what?”He had no reply.“What actually matters to you?”He didn’t know what to say.“Who are you, anyway? Do you even know?”“I–”“And why does any of that matter more than just being who you are?”He could only stare.With a deep breath, she moved away, returning to the chair opposite him. Yet she didn’t look on him any differently. “If you don’t know who you are, if you can’t just be yourself, you’ll spend your whole life trying to be what you think you should be. I did that. It was the worst. It made me unhappy, and that unhappiness… it hurts other people.”“I’m not like you.”“I’m not talking about being trans.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t really know you; I don’t know if you are or aren’t. But then, if you don’t know who you are, it’s not like you know either. You’re just afraid of finding out who you actually are.”“...What if I’m wrong?”“What if it’s not the real you?”He nodded.“You’re already wrong about yourself. Less wrong, now. Drink your coffee.”In the absence of a self to argue, his hands obeyed, his lips complied. Still warm, the cappuccino’s froth stayed on his nose, and he smeared it away.“We learn by being wrong, you know. Being cringe, and knowing it, is the price of growth.”“What about my pride?” An ember of resentment still smouldered in him. “What if I don’t want to be laughed at?”She laughed, then; but as he stared, slowly, very slowly, he realised she wasn’t laughing at him. He felt immensely confused, both seen as a fool and accepted in his foolishness, welcome with her as she laughed to know him, which was, he dimly knew, really her recognition of herself, as though in looking into him she gazed on a funhouse mirror that magnified an imperfection until it was grossly exaggerated, unavoidable, yet freeing in its absurdity, freeing her to laugh as a child would laugh, no longer weighed down by the weight of what should or shouldn’t be reflected to the world, no longer obsessed over where the mirror shone clear and real or was veiled in fakery, but accepting of what was, all imperfections redeemed by their fleeting duration, no less redeemed for their eternal recurrence.She laughed because he was full of shit, and so was she.And, quite miraculously, for the first time in his life, he sincerely laughed at himself, too.

End

• Return