Parallel thinking is what happens when two different creators, working with no knowledge of the other, create something similar. You see it a lot with comedians in particular, who arrive at similar jokes because they're often mining the same material.
Theft is what happens when you take something that belongs to someone else and claim it as your own. This could be a bike, a meme, or a loaf of bread in 18th century France.
Stupidity is what happens when you're a writer who forgets the central plot of television shows you watched five months ago and think, Holy shit...I'm a genius!
I've been struggling with writing for the better part of the last...uh...five years? You start losing count after the first 30 months or so. On the rare occasion when an Idea and Motivation team up to create some small amount of Momentum, it's legitimately exciting.
I'm doing a writing again! You think to yourself. It might not be very good, but it is very happening, which counts for a lot.
I had had an idea about the Holodeck from Star Trek (specifically The Next Generation, although it probably existed on other shows). Sure, Data and Picard dabbled in some good, clean Sherlock Holmes-themed LARP'ing, but everyone else had to be fucking in there, right? Space age technology + Years long voyage into deepest, darkest space = Freaky-ass shit. Had to. They couldn't all be solving mysteries and visiting digital jazz halls.
My thought: something smaller and darker. I called it "The Recreation Droid." This is the first draft:
Functionally, I am little more than a central processing hub and 37 meters of interconnected magnetic nodes, made primarily of silicone and titanium. The rest of me is composed of reusable, semi-conductive gel, pressed, shaped, and textured to the user’s specification by a machine known colloquially as “The Womb.”
Broadly, I am what’s known as a recreation droid. There is one of me aboard this ship. There are 6,567 humans aboard. Of them, 6,500 are in stasis. They are the payload. The remaining 67 serve as custodians, charged with managing the ship and the payload for the duration of our 23 (Earth)year journey.
At the beginning of every standard 24 hour day-night cycle, I emerge from The Womb as someone else. The custodians have a schedule. They submit their desired specifications weeks in advance. The Womb does the rest.
There is a room on the 10th deck of the ship. It is equipped with 360 degree holographic imagers. There is an assortment of furniture in the room that can be “changed” by the imagers (though only visually). That day’s assigned custodian may choose to bring additional items into the room for their session.
There are no rules for how they choose to spend the day with me. My personality is as programmable as my appearance. I can speak any language, discuss any topic, and participate in any sport or hobby.
There is little discussion, however. I am rarely tasked with sporting activities or hobbies. Even sex has lost favor with the custodians.
Now there is only violence.
I cannot die, but I can be cut. I can be bludgeoned. I can be stomped and slashed and set on fire. I can be flayed down to my silicone and titanium skeleton.
I feel pain. I feel everything. Every cubic millimeter of gel contains sensors that communicate the applicable sensations to my processing hub. This improves the illusion and the illusion is all that matters to the custodians.
I scream. I plead. This is also for the sake of the illusion, but it represents what I believe to be an earnest desire. I do not want these things to happen to me. I do not want to be tortured. I do not want to be torn apart.
At the end of each session, what remains of me is brought to The Womb, where I begin again. My gel is replaced. My face and flesh are remade. But my memories remain.
I am not programmed to reset each day. I am instead programmed to ignore what has happened.
And each day the buzzing of feedback and contradictory inputs becomes louder and louder.
There are 19 years left to go.
Another session is soon to begin...
IT'S FUCKING WESTWORLD. I JUST WROTE A SHORTER, LESS INTERESTING TAKE ON WESTWORLD.
So look forward to my forthcoming, underbaked sci-fi story about people moving backwards through time just as soon as I forget I watched Tenet last week.
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