Patterns

People always called me crazy. "Ambrose, robots aren't going to take over society", "Ambrose, you're going crazy", "Come on Ro, you don't actually believe all that stuff, do you?". I was used to it really. Conversations would stop when I entered the room, mothers would hold their child closer when I was around, etc. . . No one believes me, but I don't care.

It was a normal Wednesday afternoon, I was on a shopping trip. Like usual. I waved to an employee who pretended he didn't see me. Predictable. There was a child throwing a fit. Predictable. I picked up a bag of red apples. Predictable. Everything was so predictable. And I hated it. Every single minute of every single day. Humans all have patterns. It repeats over and over and over, making my head spin. Even I had patterns, even I was predictable. I also made myself sick.

Being unpredictable is a better tactic. Why, don't most movies have something called "The element of surprise"? It just doesn't make sense. We are all being controlled by something that makes patterns. Computers make patterns and thrive on identifying patterns. Wouldn't it make sense if we were being controlled? Why was no one listening? Why did no one care that we were being controlled and had no free will.

I called the device that controlled us all the Algorithm. It was perfect. A name for a ruthless, controlling monstress beast.

I pushed my cart past the deli section and nearly rammed it into a child who was in the way. Blasted thing. I shot him a glare and continued down my path. The world needed to hear this. I abandoned my cart and pushed through the crowds so I could find some place where everyone could hear me. I shoved an elderly man so I could reach the cashiers. They had those thingies that allowed them to talk to the whole store, right? Maybe I could use one of those. I stomped up and shoved an employee out of the way and lifted up the device. I saw four employees come forward to drag me away from the system but I couldn't let that happen.

"We're being controlled," I shouted into the microphone, "We are being deprived of our free agency, we need to find back against the algorithm! The computers are destroying us!".

A customer rolled their eyes. "There he goes again," the customer whispered to their husband. I scowled at her.

An employee put his clammy hand on my shoulder and dragged me away. Two others helped but I wouldn't be taken without a fight. I clawed, screamed, punched, kicked but they wouldn't let me go. Someone called the police. There were sirens. No, this was all wrong, all wrong.

A deep hollow laugh sounded throughout the dark room, combined with the mix of the whirls and beeps of a computer. Predictable, so predictable. Ambrose Theodore Hanson had always been one of the Computer's favorites. Easily one of the most predictable humans there were. The Computer loved to study the humans. They were predictable. Constant. The Computer loved it. Patterns were lovely too. They would always be there, even when the organics crumbled until there was nothing but barren wastelands.

Right now, the predictable species had put Mr. Hansen in a human cell. The Computer watched him carefully as the man paced and paced, trying to figure out what to do. He had a ninety five point six percent chance of giving in for now and attempting to surprise the Computer later by attacking again, in his small ways.

"Alright, you win," Ambrose said, plopping down and staring at the security camera. If the Computer could smile, he certainly would.

Three hours, twenty two minutes, and fifty three point two five seconds later, Mr Ambrose Hansen was released. The Computer waited patiently for Mr Hansen's next move... but it never came. This wasn't very predictable. The possibility of Mr Hansen forgetting about everything came to zero.

So the computer waited. Waited through Mr Hansen get a job, waited while he went through multiple dating sites, waited through his wedding. Waited and waited but it never came. He predictably had two sons and a daughter but never any signs of wanting to retaliate. The percentage of him doing so went up each and every day but it still never happened.

The Computer ran off of patterns. Ambrose Hansen was a man of patterns as well. But this was unusual. He lived for many years. Eighty four, to be exact. But he never ever mentioned the overtaking of the Computers. This was most puzzling. How can a man of such complex patterns suddenly stop? The man was most complex. His patterns didn't make any sense.

Error, Error. The Computer checked his systems. He was malfunctioning. This wasn't right. A series of wires inside the Computer's circuitry suddenly went in flames. The Computer was failing. Because it couldn't identify the reason in pattern for one individual. Error, Error. The message flashed across the screen of the Computer again.

The old man that was Ambrose Theodore Hansen was dying. He was on his deathbed and he knew it. His children were all grown up. One was an author, another was a nurse, and the third was a technician. How ironic, He thought dryly. His wife was still at home. He could hear her cooking breakfast. She made breakfast twice. Once for him, and once for her. All because she didn't want to waste cooking supplies in case he wasn't alive to eat his breakfast. He still loved her madly.

He knew he wasn't going to be able to eat breakfast this morning. "I hope I confused you enough old friend". Ambrose said before he closed his eyes for the last time and took a much needed rest.

The Computer was failing. He heard the last words of Ambrose Hansen. Found the pattern, but it was too late to do anything. The Computer was in flames. Well played, old man, well played.