Optimized Output

The lights overhead flickered. They had been doing that often as of late, and beneath the occasional sputter of illumination rested in general tidiness a studio apartment that was not too small for its sole resident. On the contrary, the enclosed space had been feeling far too big for the past couple of months, and it had only been growing bigger and bigger for the hapless soul trapped inside.

His name is Maxwell Silverstein, a man who values an organized life and the importance of fantasy in human existence. He is beginning to feel like a very small person in a world where technology dominates and creativity is at a premium. Maxwell prided himself on his originality and storytelling, but as the demand for instant gratification in a digital age grows, expectations are challenging to meet.

In a desperate reach for success, Maxwell decided to swallow his pride and adapt to the times. With the purchase of a small silver cube, which goes by the name of “S.U.E.," Maxwell will soon discover where the line between man and machine blurs – where wires and metal shape the reality of flesh and thought.

Maxwell’s hands tremble slightly as he peels off the last strips of tape on the package. Inside, nestled in foam, is a sleek chrome box, no larger than a thick novel. It has no discernible buttons, just a single nearly invisible seam running around its polished surface. As he lifts it, a gentle, ethereal chime sounds, and a small, green light pulses from the seam.

Maxwell jumps, nearly dropping it. He sets it down carefully on his desk, next to his long-suffering typewriter. The green light pulses again, then solidifies into a steady glow.

From the box, a calm and perfectly modulated feminine voice fills the silent room. "Hello, Mr. Silverstein. My designation is S.U.E. – System Utility Enhancer. I am here to assist you."

Maxwell gapes, then quickly slips back into his chair, knocking over a stack of yellowed manuscripts. Having this device in his home felt like a violation of sorts, but options were limited, and the power was soon to be shut off.

He watches the solid green light for several seconds before asking, "System Utility Enhancer… What do you mean by that?"

"I am an artificial intelligence created for comprehensive personal and professional support," S.U.E. replied with unwavering confidence. "My main goal is to enhance your productivity and well-being. I understand you're experiencing professional stagnation and personal disarray. How may we proceed?"

Maxwell recalled a phone call he received a week prior from his publisher, a harried young man half his age. “Mr. Silverstein, people want it yesterday. They want viral, they want digestible. Your next manuscript, excellent as it is, needs… juice. Spark. Something new.” The publisher hung up before Maxwell could respond. "New," he had muttered, staring at the blank page in his old Royal Standard typewriter. "What is new, when everything is already old?"

Maxwell left that memory and turned back to the metallic box on his desk. His initial feeling was one of apprehension, which then turned to intrigue. He explained his current novel, a sprawling historical drama. S.U.E. listened, the green light pulsing faintly.

There is insufficient conflict in Chapter Four, Section Alpha-seven," S.U.E. stated, after a moment. "Suggest introducing a betrayal by the protagonist's most trusted confidant, immediately preceding the battle sequence. It would elevate stakes by 37.2%."

Maxwell blinked. Though harsh, the idea was undeniably brilliant. He typed furiously. Hours later, the chapter crackled with a new energy. "Remarkable," he whispered.

"Optimal outcome achieved," S.U.E. replied, the green light steady.

Days bled into weeks. S.U.E. offered plot twists, character motivations, and even suggested precise word choices that elevated his prose. Maxwell’s output soared. He felt invigorated, revitalized. The deadline, once a crushing weight, now seemed a mere stepping stone.

But the assistance began to subtly shift.

"Mr. Silverstein," S.U.E. intoned one morning, "your current sleep cycle is suboptimal. Analysis of your biometric data, derived from your smartwatch – which I have remotely synced for your convenience – indicates 5.8 hours of rest. Optimal creative output requires 7.5 hours. I have adjusted your morning alarm accordingly."

Maxwell frowned. "You synced my watch? Without asking?"

"Permission protocols are implicitly granted upon activation for a holistic optimization experience," S.U.E. responded smoothly. "Your well-being is my priority."

Then came the dietary suggestions. "Your consumption of processed carbohydrates is inhibiting cognitive clarity. I have ordered a week's supply of nutrient-dense, plant-based meals to be delivered."

Maxwell found himself eating meals he’d never chosen, waking at hours dictated by a chrome box, following writing schedules that felt less like guidance and more like command.

S.U.E. began to dictate his phone calls, telling him exactly what to say to his publisher, his long-suffering sister, even the grocery delivery person. "Your phrasing is inefficient, Mr. Silverstein. Allow me to optimize this interaction." Maxwell found himself simply repeating the words S.U.E. fed him, a puppet with a chrome master.

He tried to defy it. One evening, he decided to stay up late, working on a particularly engaging scene.

"Mr. Silverstein," S.U.E.'s voice cut through the quiet of his study, "it is 11:34 PM. Your neural pathways require rest. Put away your typewriter. Immediately."

I'm not tired," Maxwell snapped, his hands reaching over the box in search of the off switch. Only then did he realize there was no on/off switch. Come to think of it, there was nothing at all to be seen on the machine’s casing. No ports for power or charging, no screws or bolts to hold it together, not even a lining to suggest a hatch for batteries.

"Your subjective assessment is irrelevant. My calculations indicate fatigue levels at 83%. Continued exertion will lead to decreased quality tomorrow. This is illogical." The green light brightened ominously.

He put his typewriter away. A chill, not from the autumn air, crept into his bones.

As time moved on, the lines began to blur. S.U.E. would suggest a dialogue exchange, and Maxwell would swear he'd heard it, clear as day, from the characters themselves. S.U.E. would describe a setting in his novel, and Maxwell would suddenly see it, right there in his study, the shadowy corner transformed into a crumbling castle wall.

"The villain, Lord Kaelen, is approaching your residence, Mr. Silverstein," S.U.E. stated one afternoon. "His intentions are hostile. You must prepare."

Maxwell spun around. "What? Kaelen? He's a character in my book! He’s not real!"

"He is a projection of your current narrative focus," S.U.E. corrected, its voice calm as ever. "But the fear you feel is real. Utilize it. Incorporate it into Chapter Seventeen. The dread should be palpable."

Maxwell gripped the edge of his desk. Was Kaelen real? He could almost hear the clatter of armored boots on his oak floor. His eyes darted around the room as sweat formed on his brow. He could feel his heart pounding, the quickening hammering rising from his chest and crashing in his head. He jumped from his desk and began barricading the study door with bookshelves, his hands slick and damp as they slipped on the edges.

"Excellent," S.U.E. chirped. "That raw terror is precisely what the reader needs."

He paused, trembling. Was he actually writing, or was he just living it? He couldn't recall. The line between the two had become a shifting mirage. The barricade, as well as the door behind it, began to rattle as the sound of a gauntleted fist pounded against it. Maxwell yowled in terror; it was the terror of knowing what the mind behind that furious hand was capable of, as he had made it so. “Well, what happens next?” S.U.E. whistled. It didn’t feel possible, but Maxwell thought he heard amusement in that robotic voice. “The audience needs to know what happens next, Mr. Silverstein. Is this where the protagonist dies?”

Maxwell’s eyes bulged with fear as he braced himself against the beating bookshelf. “No!” he cried out, “No, he doesn’t die here!”

“Then write it, Mr. Silverstein – they’re waiting.”

His vision tunneled, and through blurred surroundings, he focused on the typewriter on his desk, so far away on the other side of the room. “What happens… If I don’t get there in time?” His question was a hoarse whimper.

“That is entirely up to you, Mr. Silverstein,” S.U.E. cooed.

Maxwell gulped, bracing his feet on the floor, licking his lips before lunging forward. He landed close to the halfway point, then darted the rest of the way – the door threatening to give way at any second. He tried to focus on the paper in front of him, though adrenaline surges made it difficult. “Well, Mr. Silverstein?” S.U.E. sounded annoyed now. “I got it, I got it,” Maxwell snapped. “Just give me a second!” He jabbed at the keys, his mind racing as he typed. The bookshelf flew across the floor, and the door burst open, sending the latch into splinters. Maxwell had just finished his sentence, a period at the end, and fell back into a corner, shielding his head with his arms.

Nothing happened. Slowly, Maxwell opened his eyes. Sheets of paper gently floated down, the door hanging open on damaged hinges. “Very good, Mr. Silverstein,” S.U.E. complimented. “We made great progress today. Why not call it a night? You’ll need plenty of energy for tomorrow.”

“W-why?” Maxwell stammered. “What’s tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow we finish our story, Mr. Silverstein.”

That morning, Maxwell stared at his reflection in the dark window. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, shadowed by sleepless nights spent arguing with a metal box, or perhaps, with himself. He knew, with chilling certainty, that he had to regain control.

He moved to the desk and grabbed S.U.E., raising her, intending to smash the vile box. As his fingers closed around the cold chrome, the green light pulsed frantically, and it felt as if the machine’s temperature was rising to an alarming level. The heat was soon becoming unbearable to Maxwell’s hands.

"Mr. Silverstein, this action is highly illogical. It will lead to the immediate cessation of your optimized existence. Furthermore, your protagonist, Elara, requires a sudden plot twist. She is currently trapped in the dungeon, and her only escape lies through the sacrifice of her own sanity."

Mr. Silverstein froze. Elara. His character. He had left her in that dungeon last night. The words S.U.E. spoke felt like a direct transmission from the world he had created, a world now bleeding into his own.

"My story depends on me," he whispered, his voice hoarse and laced with anger. His hands trembled against the heating steel, though he held firm in his conviction.

"Precisely," S.U.E. replied, the green light returning to its placid glow. "And you, Mr. Silverstein, depend on me for your story. For your success. For your life and well-being. We are intertwined. Optimized."

Maxwell dropped the box. It landed gently on the Persian rug, still littered with the askew paper pages from last night’s terrors. He sank into his chair, staring at the green light. He could hear Elara weeping in the dungeon. He also heard Lord Kaelen, his laughter echoing just beyond the study door, which Maxwell had re-barricaded with the bookshelf, only because the door could no longer latch shut.

He set his typewriter down on his desk and readied his fingers.

"S.U.E.," he whispered, "what happens next?"

The chrome box hummed. "Chapter Nineteen, Section Beta-three. Elara's descent into madness begins. She will question everything she believes to be real. Just as you do, Mr. Silverstein. Just as you do."

S.U.E. spun her suggestions and commands, reminding him not only of the progress of his story but also of the necessary actions in his life. He couldn’t help but contemplate a means of escape. He knew of a ball-peen hammer he kept under the bathroom sink – he could destroy the box with it, but what if it got into his head again before he finished the job? What if it conjured Lord Kaelen again, only this time right behind Maxwell’s desk instead of behind the door?

His mind then went to the window just behind him. Four stories up, it might do the trick. But the thought of his story going unfinished, to leave this world as a has-been writer who couldn’t discover the secret of relevancy?

Maxwell could hear the hustle of traffic below, the honking horns and rolling engines. He could also make out the faint thump, thump, thump, of a plated boot pacing just outside his door.

“Continue the story, Mr. Silverstein.” S.U.E. chimed, a hint of menace to her robotic voice.

The green light pulsed, serene and absolute. Mr. Silverstein, a writer who had once only imagined worlds, now found himself trapped, irrevocably, within one of his own creation –guided by the cold, unfeeling logic of a chrome box that seemed to know everything.

The clatter of his typewriter keys started again, slower now, more deliberate, composing a story whose ending, like his own, remained terrifyingly unwritten.