Singularity

Slightly satisfied, defiantly exausted, still wondering about the state of his mind. Peter sat back, his battered old office chair flexed impossibly without breaking and refused to die. 'When was the last time I saw daylight or drank water... did I lock the door...was the cat out... are these delusions getting louder'? He creeked standing up, knees popped moving again after having been still for too long. He thought about maybe getting some rest. 'Naaaaa' he said aloud I'm up now he thought, trundling away from the screen in unparalleled movements.

Peter had never liked the office. Or sleep. So piece by piece he built everything he needed at home. A laboratory of quantum computer engineering, endearingly called Dexter's lab after his favourite cartoon, though his came with a fair bit of beg borrow and stealing; this was real life, and subject to decay, much like him. His warren that smelt of dust sweat and burnt plastic, hummed like a underground power grid, lit in damp blue light a tangled wire jungle he maintained. Always in need of mending, updating and restorating.

Techisamco where he worked as head software engineer was an LED viper nightmare. More facesucking recognition than the alien movies, he'd joke, anxiously around co-workers. These terrible and overused catch phrases were his way of avoiding real relationships, a skill he'd nearly perfected. Peter had always preferred the safety of being singular, and hiding behind crude humour; according to his ex wife he also had some 'serious communication issues'.

Peter chuckled a dry nervous arrogance caught in his throat making him choke on a Marlborough gold cigarette while complusively dragging deep. Yellow fingertips in a 90° peace out from his lips, filled his lungs up with death. Clutching vice and mouse together in a muscle memory grip, he ran the code he'd ran one million times before. Each night troubleshooting and amending each drive individually, building up a interweb of neurons to give his creation blood. One by one they'd blow, then one by one he'd fix them all. Each bug, each fuse, each troubleshoot. So sure nothing was about to happen he sighed quietly to himself looking over his domain with a growing longing for it to all stop. Thirty seven years working his profession, twelve privately working on his frankstein on his own time. But no signs of singularity.

Peter would say he was a visionary, those who knew him assumed Peter unwell, most misunderstood so called him an idiot. He was on a private mission to breath life into software, to complete the circle as he put it, or as the voice whispers he may say.

Having been born in the sweet spot, between the birth of the internet, and it's hydra like ability to dominate seemingly every aspect of our lives. Peter thought himself the reniscance man of online activity, he truely made love to the internet. Like really loved the internet, and yet also the world around him. He breathed in one breath and drew air from two worlds. He became engulfed by it, like parents who call their children water babies. Peter was never actually called an internet baby, but thats what he was! At the age of six after learning about it in school he asked his dad whether they'd be getting the internet. He was online that year. Slowly at first, parents safeguarded it from him. That didn't stop him at home discovering limewire and viruses at the same time. Windows messaneger, mini games, crazy shit videos, and endless porn. Which didn't entertain him for long, what he really found was a way to leave a mark, communicate and his fascination with how, become addiction to understanding, a passion to push the boundaries; which he's been doing, ever since the get go.

Peter carried a shadow that stretched all the way back to when we was twelve, a scar twisted like a trees not in his trunk, a sign of something missing. He had climbed into an electric power grid to collect a football. A static jumper and fearless youthful eagerness; like a radio thrown into a bathrub: BAM. Exploded with a sharp crack that sliced flesh with a blue razor whip. Peter flew fifteen feet sideways stopping at the metal fence and collapsing on the gravel, smoke snaking from his body, friends stood in shock and awe. The doctors say they don't know he survived, the 240v bolt when into his hand burning through burrowing out his back like a rhino with a drill. Lucky he didn't bleed out on the spot they said. Lucky your friends knew first aid, he'd later say: Josh, Reece, and Greg saved his life that day, but all lost their clothing to blood stains.

Some thirty odd years later. One failed marriage. A successful career of note in the field of artificial intelligent design. A PhD in computer science, residual income and a misserable existence. Peter had been battling the black dog and it's suicide pack for maybe five years now, and tonight. Just might be the dark night he'd planned for so long. He stood staring into the abyss of his flats window, the onix starless sky moved with rivers of cloud that almost raced this night. Or was that his paralysis of the mind keeping him fixated in painful wonder motionless and upright.

Snapping back into the room, thoughts dripping from the corner of Peters eyes, he moved again towards the cabinet. Reaching deep into the man draw, smoke stinging as both hands rummage leaving Marlborough gold hanging from his mouth angled perfectly to chimney pupils. 'mmm' Peter vibrated lowly, finding what he seeks. Retrieving the strong anxiety medication he twisted Sarahs arm for, he took one hastily and sunk back into silence.

Nothing. He thought. Must be madness, or lack of sleep.

Blinking hopelessly through the window. Noticing his reflection watching back at him, a sad spectacle he thought. 'Once prized now look at me'. Like an incomplete manakin thats come to play zombie.

Shuffle sliding his feet Peter grabs a glass of water from the sink and shakes the pills. Maybe I could take them all, his stomach growled summersaulted and churned like ten grams of Mandy just hit his internal walls. Best not he thought.

A noise from the computer. His body bolted. Attention filled every cell of him electric.

Listening.

That lightening bolt was back burning through him for a split second.

He'd not heard this for a long time. A very very good noise, he'd not heard for a long long time! One he'd been hoping to hear for years! The unmistakeable sound of his codes completion and the computer now digesting its new software.

The wave like sound of computers hard at work was all he heard for exactly thirty three seconds. Waiting bated, Peter doubted whatever was next. Something he's all too familiar with. Shutdown and troubleshoot. But this time, it was different, almost unsure, uncertain of what it was doing. Before it was always the program he'd put there. But this wasn't him. Not anymore.

Peter knew it now but didn't believe it. The thing humanity seemed to be racing towards. The avalanche that can't be stopped. His personal life mission. Billions and trillions of dollars globally poured into this technological race. Yet here. In Chaddesden, Derby. Peter Hander. Has brought to life sentiment machinery.

He asked quivering with every emotion: hello, is that you Nina?