The Moonwalker

 The Moonwalker

By Graham Swanson

The Director

The first time Micheal saw the Director was at a concert after he released his first album Off The Wall. By then he was independent from his father. He was free. He could perform however he wanted. 

 Micheal first heard him in the lights of a show. It started  a little early, and it threw off Micheal’s timing. Slightly. 

Snap!

“Posture” an whisper rumbled from the end of the stadium to Micheal’s ear. 

Micheal straightened his back. 

Micheal pretended he didn’t hear it. The show goes on. The concerts got bigger, faster, more lights, more explosions. The staff toiled tirelessly. And every year had to be bigger and better.

 But soon it made itself present even when he wasn’t performing. He didn’t have his first playtime until age 30 when he visited the children’s hospital he supported. 

Micheal walked into the children’s hospital in full dress. Black jacket. Double golden belts across his chest. The child reached out with a soft hand and touched his rhinestone glove. 

He dazzled them with his famous dances. The moonwalk, the anti gravity lean, even the robot. The children gasped and clapped. 

“I have a dance I practiced just for you.” He put on his sunglasses to complete the look. 

The children sat up in their beds.

Micheal had rehearsed it like a performance. He knew exactly what to do. Switch, supercharge, smn, en garde, over me with ribbon, smile. 

He stood in position. He tapped his foot, and honed his breaths. He pressed his toes down and lifted into the air. His feet moved so swiftly that it looked like the floor melted beneath him. The moment it took him to click his tongue his body became untethered, and it loosened into a liquid motion. He did it perfectly.  Switch, supercharge, smn, en garde, over me with ribbon.

He heard it once more. It sounded so soft that he wasn’t sure where it came from. 

Do it again…

“Well, let me try one more time.” Micheal looked out from the lenses of his sunglasses. He saw the Director standing there between the children. Every show after that, he saw him, and did as he was told. In the smoke. In the crowd among fans. And in the sky above. A cloud in the shape of a man. A god of spectacle. With a snake skin belt. Studded. 

Neverland

A dream came true. A mansion on the cliffside over looking the beach and the city skyline. An entire amusement park was built in. A roller coaster, a ferris wheel. A petting zoo. A stream engine train. Every desire was met here. Micheal told no one, but he began to notice speckles in the mirror. Small white pigments under his dark flesh. 

Here the kids had everything he never had. No one could tell them what to do. Their parents weren’t there to keep them from making messes. They could stay up all night, climb ladders, spill food on the curtains. Chase squirrels on the roof. 

The staff rushed from room to room. Full time. Cleaning up after the kids so the mansion remained pristine. Just like one of Micheal’s shows. He never gave them a break. At the end of the night, the kids finally went to bed. The staff smoked cigarettes and took what little sleep they could. Tomorrow would be an even bigger day for the children. It always was.

The Director had their playtimes scheduled between rigorous dances. Micheal let him pick children out. One boy asked Micheal questions. About his life. About what kind of activities he enjoyed when he was young. Micheal just looked down at him.

“The Director wants you to keep your posture up while you dance. And smile more.” 

The children had access to every room. They spent most of their playtime in the game rooms, but a few curious young ones explored further halls that the other kids did not venture down. A locked door. A forbidden door. A sign read. “For Micheal Only.” The kids tried to get in but they didn’t have the strength to undo the latch. One pressed his ear against the wood. He heard clapping, but no cheers. Counting, but no music. Then a scuttle across the floor as a heavy forced pressed back against the ear of the kid. 

The boy wanted to go home after the experience. So he took the boy into his private quarters to sleep. Micheal told him stories and sang to him. Things went well until the boy vomited on the  sheets. 

Micheal went from fun and playful to sullen. He examined the sheets. 10,000$ sheets. He ripped them off the bed, and called the staff to burn them. 

He spent the next morning shaking his fist at how poor the kids performed. He kept stopping the dance to correct them. At first the staff thought, hey, he’s a performer, he knows what he’s doing. Then Micheal started getting on them for playing right. 

“Put your hands up when you go down the roller coaster.” If they didn’t do it, Micheal wouldn’t let them dance with him. 

On still quiet nights, Micheal nursed a glass of alcohol. He stood over the kids as they slept. His mouth quickly changed from a smile to the trembling of a man on the verge of tears, then just as fast back to a smile. 

Micheal stared at a plate of his favorite food. Hot and crispy. A basket of fried chicken. The staff outside nurtured the chicken cages. Nothing like homemade. He put his leg up on the ottoman. He took a chicken wing. He pressed it into his lips. His teeth penetrated the skin. It crunched in his teeth. Juice and saliva pooled under his bottom lip. 

He reclined and let the seasoned batter rest on his tongue.

Snap!

He cringed at the sound. His eyes popped open, his mouth full of chicken meat. He spit it out. The Director had his phone.

The staff manager listened from the other end. It sounded like Micheal.

 “Yeah, I heard it again… the snack room this time. Sure. Okay, thank you. Bye bye.” 

The staff filed out to search the estate. They searched the attic, the secondary pantry, even the hidden tunnels between the main rooms. They found nothing. One room remained locked, forever unsearched, and silent. One new guy tried to open the door but couldn’t move it because it was locked by a 12 pound bolt. The other staff stopped what they were doing and got into his face.

“Dont you ever touch that door. It stays shut.”

“What’s in there?” 

“Don’t look.” 

The staff manager called Micheal.

“Yo, Mike. There’s nothing here.”

“The Directors wants you to search again.” 

The staff manager groaned. 

“All 52 rooms?” 

“And the gardens.” 

Micheal stood on his balcony and looked over the quiet ferris wheel sway in his backyard. The children didn’t ride it anymore. The nursery was unlit. The kids gathered for dinner. Each child had come starry eyed and excited. Now they weren’t so sure they wanted to be here. 

The staff manager stayed on the phone.

“When are the children going home? The maids are getting tired of cleaning up after them.”

“The Director wants them to stay.” 

The staff watched over the kids. They took notes on what they had seen. The kids started off having fun. It was dancing, games, swimming, rides, music. Then the staff noticed here and there. Micheal leaving the locked room but never entering it. To their utter disgust, Micheal no longer listened to his friends or supporters. He answered only to “The Director” who only he could detect.  

When Micheal was alone, he was depressed. He looked at pictures of himself, and hurled them across the room. In the glass of the frame the Director stood at his shoulder. The floor shuddered when Micheal grew. His dances became unstable, uncoordinated, and more than once he fell in front of the kids and staff.

He asked the Director to help him up. 

The children began to notice it too. Micheal would offer to take a young fan to dance with him. However Micheal seemed uncomfortable around them. Like he needed approval for anything. At this point they missed their parents. However the doors were locked. 

“Mike, why are the doors locked?”

“Because The Director likes you.” He would tell the chosen ones. 

"The Director said no... no. no." Micheal walked through the house in the morning. His pale sleeping robe covered in all manner of fluids and crusts. The kids just helped themselves at the banquet table. Morning light washed over the the mansion. Micheal stood at the window. His shadow erect against the rise of day. Perfect straight back. With his long black hair and fluttering robe he descended the stairs. 

He was happy to join the kids. He was innocent, he just didn’t know what a normal childhood was.  Until the ground shook. An earthquake caused the bridges over the bay to collapse.Micheal rushed them to the safety room while he went upstairs to grab his case of prosthetics. He spent hours in his washroom. Nurses applied balms to the cracks.

The earthquake ended but the kids were not settled.

Micheal tried to calm them down but then the cracks in his face appeared.  The kids all screamed and jumped up from their seats. Micheal rolled his head around and his angelic voice twisted into the roar of anger.

The kids ran down the halls. Micheal ran after them, his dirty robes fluttering behind him. Blinded by tears. The rocking horse fell over and bounced into the fireplace. The bottles of chocolate milk shattered on the floor.  

The kids ran down the lawn in the early morning. The mist rose from the blades of grass to shield them.

The staff organized a secret mission. They took photos, they recorded statements, and once on a rainy night, they left the large doors by the dinner hall unlatched. Thunder crashed, and the wind blew the doors open. Micheal rushed down. The dining room was empty. The kids were gone.

He roamed the halls crying for them to come out from hiding. His hair long unbrushed, his lips red, and his face white as porcelain. He saw himself in a mirror. The young man was no longer within him. Who he saw was unrecognizable. The Director’s shadow was there. 

The Moonwalker

Then he heard it again. 

Snap!

He stared at the bolted door. 

Micheal… a voice whispered. Forward step.

The latch came undone. The door turned a glowing red. Micheal gripped the handle and lifted. Metal rings turned within. The bottom dragged against the floor as he pulled it open. 

He heard synthesizers hum but he saw no equipment. He saw beams of lights searching the sky through holes in the ceiling but with no spot lights. Red fog settled to the floor. A stage emerged. The Director stood on top. 

“Where are the children?” Micheal asked. 

“They’re gone now, Micheal.” The Director whispered. 

Micheal stepped up on the stage. The lights became flames. His clothes burned off, and from the ashes his concert garments appeared. He strapped it together. Piece by piece. Penny loafers. Black pants. Gold belt. Leather jacket. 

Micheal tried to balance himself. The fatal hours he spent chugging shots and smoking cigarettes took a toll. His toes no longer had the strength to hold him. He wobbled when he walked. His legs felt stiff.

“You destroyed everything I built.” Micheal said. His limbs hard and aching. Back slumped. His head forward. Strands of wet hair covered his face. His eyes sockets deepened. Moisture seeped out. They focused on the shadow of the Director and spat hatred. 

“You dare challenge the Director?” The Director’s shape changed. He became thin, lean, narrow legged. He had golden sparkles in his skin. “You don’t have the moves anymore Micheal.” 

Micheal said nothing. He kept his gaze focused like an archer. He stood in position. He couldn’t see the floor tape. He didn’t need it. He heard no music. He didn’t need that either. 

Micheal matched every move. First it was the moves he learned as a kid, then moves he invented, then finally the Director changed pace, and began doing moves that no human being  alive can possibly do. ‘

“Now you understand, Micheal.” the Director’s voice BOOMED. 

Micheal almost blew across the room but he gripped the edge of the stage, pulled himself up, and began his counter dance.  Elegant, effortless, fallen but once divine. 

The Director writhed in pain as fire burst from his eyes and mouth. 

First  his appearance begins to fade. Then he lost his voice. It hurt. But the director tried to match the speed and precision of Micheal Jackson. He saw great dancers in ancient Persia fall. He taught ballet to the Russians. But no matter what he did, he could not produce the energy required to lift his body. He got tired with each motion. He began slipping up, while Micheal kept inventing new flawless moves. 

“No, Micheal… what have you done to me?” 

Micheal looked into the Director’s eyes. He saw wet mirrors wide with terror. He kept dancing. The Director’s bones turned to dust within his outfit. 

The police arrived. Cops rushed into the mansion. They crashed down doors,  they broke through windows, they repelled down the ceiling with ropes. 

The walls of the room fall apart. The ceiling collapsed. Micheal held onto the Director. The Director had once seen Micheal as someone soft, malleable, manageable. Now he saw a fierceness, dark side, when he saw it come to life, he wished he had never entered the heart and soul of Micheal Jackson. 

Micheal advanced, and for the first time the Director stepped back, stripped of control. Micheal kept doing the same move. Forward step. Unleashed. Unstoppable. Micheal no longer listened. The Director recoiled. Micheal danced through him. 

“I created you!” the Director snarled, his lungs filling with fluid. “How could you do this?” 

 Micheal took him by the collar. Tears of blood dripped own his cheek. Both of them faded into shadow and smoke. The cops frantically searched all 54 rooms. When they finally reached the forbidden  room, they witnessed the final shadow of Micheal Jackson, his features opaque, his surgeries coming undone, but he still danced with elegance and grace. As divine in motion as he ever was. He was still Micheal. Then he vanished. 

The Horror of the OPEN THE DOOR Meme

 The Horror of the OPEN THE DOOR Meme

by Graham Swanson

Sketch of the perpetrator by me

The Uncanny Real 

The scariest part is realizing that the man in the footage is not acting. We've reached a point in Social Media where real violence becomes content and the confusion it induces becomes its own style of horror. Fear has changed. Perceptions have changed. A monster is no longer at such an manufactured distance that our anxieties can be represented by it. It has become something familiar, ambiguous, and ultimately out there. In this video, it comes to the door step.

The footage looks like fiction. It appears like something crafted by a Director. The man's face is perfectly centered. He remains in sight of the camera. Full focus. Fully lit. His outfit looks like how this type of character would appear on TV. Almost like he's wearing a costume. The black trench coat made infamous by the Columbine Shooters. Then the anime shirt, a bright signal to the internet, as if this was a message to the internet. The pacing of how this naturally escalates. It plays out like a film script. The slow build up. No fast changes.

"Open the door" He demands.

But his face is tight and he speaks like he's trying to hold in the pressure. He stands still. Quietly asking them to open the door. When they don't, he begins asking about their daughter. He becomes impatient. Slowly his brain releases the anger expanding in his brain until he is slinging his open palms against the camera. 

The gap between what is real and made up is the focal point. Blair Witch tried to capture this. Except this is not made up. It's 100% authentic. The "Found Footage" genre fell flat because those actors consented to being in a film. This video is potent because we share the helplessness the people in the home are experiencing. 

Social Media has saturated our perception with skits, Tiktoc jokes, and AI clips. This type of content creates a psychological hesitation. The viewer realizes they trust the senses in regard to SM in the same way we use them to process authentic danger. In other words, Social Media conditions the mind to misread a situation. To take it at a surface level. Videos like this bring the senses back to a sober moment. The horror develops within the viewer as they realize that there is MORE to this than they have been cultivated to believe.  

Horror used to mimic real fears, secret knowledge, occult danger, and consequences of severe human suffering. Today fear has changed and it is instead reality that mirrors horror. 

The Threat Aesthetic 

The man wears a symbol of ultraviolent mass shootings. The Trench Coat Mafia forever tainted the black trench coat. This symbol carries a deeper meaning. Not just quiet danger. It's the weight of hostility towards the world around them. 

The anime shirt. Anime has been used far and wide by Social Media. It is effective at capturing people's attention. However this is not cute and innocent. It’s ugly and dark. 

The behavior of the man trespasses the protected sense of security. It erodes the sanctuary of a wholesome, safe world. It is erratic in a time when emotions are expected to be controlled. A flash of real feelings in a time when society is pressuring people to hold it in creates a surreal scene. A temper tantrum from an adult. A murderous rage we are encouraged to fear, but will  never understand. 

All of this imagery is a shorthand for danger we've begun to recognize all too well in the New Millenium. The horror antagonist. Similar to the Joker, this man is a coded visual that expresses the type of "let it burn" responses to the problems of a fast changing world. Yet it isn't fictional and is ever present. And people don't know how to detect it. They can't identify it. It finds them. 

The Invasion of the Domestic Space

The man doesn't leave when the video ends. He walked off camera. There was a mother inside hiding her young children in a closet. Her husband was at work. The trespasser broke in through the back door and entered the house while the mother and her children were inside. 

A stranger trying to get into a house is a classic horror story. Vampires require invitation. Films like The Strangers and Funny Games present the home invasion nightmare. "All Through The House" from Tales from the Crypt as well as the famous suspense story "Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been" depict malefactors attempting to breach the cozy home's security. 

"Open the door." The man demands.

 It's simple, but the way he keeps repeating it makes it threatening. It triggers a primal fear. The door bell camera alarm, the glass of a broken window, the bent door handle of a forced lock, footprints in the flowerbed. When he says it, the illusion of safety is tested. 

The Unpredictable Element 

I'm glad everyone is safe. This man is now in jail and facing serious charges. Children shouldn't have to suffer a man's attack. However the scary thing about this video is that it pokes at the imagination. That could've been far worse. He could've had a weapon, He couldn't kidnapped someone, he could've sat and waited for someone to come out, he could've set a fire, he could've murdered someone. 

The imagination jumps around because this video is so unpredictable. Without context the victims may have been aware of, the viewer is left to fill in the blanks. No clear conclusion is provided. The video ends with the man reaching a screaming climax and launching his fists into the door. His face hangs there with the tension unresolved. We see an organic moment of extreme emotion, not a scripted event. This creates an aesthetic horror that mirrors real life violence in a way that feels close to home. Horror films try to get close to this but the reality of it is more shocking than any ghost. 

Preface for "Bots"

 We’ve flipped something in the way we judge people.

Traits that used to be seen as thoughtful or sensitive are now labeled suspicious or even dangerous. Meanwhile, constant positivity gets treated as authenticity. No questions asked.

But sometimes that “good vibes only” energy feels more like a mask than the real thing. A quick smile can hide a lot, and we’ve gotten used to valuing what’s projected over what’s actually there.

Maybe the issue isn’t negativity or sensitivity, it’s how quickly we judge anything that isn’t surface-level pleasant.

As technology evolves, especially with AI, it might force us to confront these biases. Not because it’s perfect, but because it doesn’t carry the same knee-jerk social assumptions we do.

Bots

 Bots

by Graham Swanson

Robot Face in Progress by Me

I

The face split open along the cheek.

Mikeal didn’t notice it at first. He was leaning in too close. Breath fogged the smooth, pale surface of the lips as he tried to perfect the corner of the mouth. Then the seam gave way. Just a thin, quiet tear, like peels of dead skin.

He gasped and pulled back.

“Damn it.”

The silicone sagged where it had separated. The illusion fell apart. The mouth and eyes drooped. For a moment, it didn’t look like a face at all. Just saggy material, slack and artificial. Then, as he steadied it with both hands, it almost seemed to look back at him.

Mikeal swallowed, reached for the adhesive, and pressed the seam together.

Carefully with his palm. Tenderly between his two wet fingers.

Like closing a wound. 

II

Her name was Eliza. He met her on the self-driving bus. They complained over how much they missed having coffee and bonded over how much they used to enjoy the bitter taste. 

They met for drinks during the human hours, somewhere too dim to feel like a commitment. The kind of place where people pretended not to study each other.

Mikeal liked her immediately. She laughed easily, asked thoughtful questions, and didn't check her phone every thirty seconds. By the second drink, he’d relaxed enough to talk about his work.

“I make faces,” he said.

She smiled. “Like masks?”

“No. Not masks.” He hesitated, already hearing how it would sound. “Faces. For robots.”

That pause. That slight tightening around her eyes. He’d learned to recognize it.

Weird.

Still, she didn’t pull away. She raisedan eye brow. Asked about texture, about expression, about whether robots could feel the difference.

“They don’t,” he said. “But people do.”

That landed somewhere with her. She didn't show it.

Later that night, she told him about her father. An actor. Or he had been. Before studios stopped hiring humans for anything but novelty roles. 

“They said the robots were more consistent,” she said, staring into the soft glow of a computer screen. “Didn’t get tired. Didn’t age.”

Mikeal nodded, unsure what to say.

He didn’t mention that better faces, more human faces, had helped make that possible.

III

Two thousand followers.

Mikeal refreshed the page again, as if the number might flicker upward out of pity.

It didn’t.

Two years ago, he’d mapped it all out. Growth curves, engagement rates, projected shares. Two hundred thousand followers by now, minimum. Enough to make a living. Enough to matter.

Instead: two thousand.

A few sales trickled in. Enough to keep going. Not enough to feel like success.

The world had moved on.

The robot face boom had been decades ago during the Crisis, when everyone wanted machines to look human, comforting, familiar. Artists had risen then, real masters of the craft. Mikeal had studied them obsessively. An old German sculptor, a reclusive designer out of Singapore. Both gone now.

No mentors. No movement. Just him, posting into a void.

Outside, the mood had shifted.

People didn’t want human-looking robots anymore. They wanted distance. Separation.

On the news, a robot violinist was being attacked. In the days of his masters, the robot had gone viral for perfect performances, impossible precision. It played concertos no human could sustain.

The next clip showed what was left of him.

A crowd. Shouting. Hands tearing it apart piece by piece.

Someone threw the scraps into the water.

Mikeal turned the screen off.

IV

The new platform was called Mantle.

He almost didn’t sign up.

Another app, another promise. But he made an account anyway, uploaded a few photos, wrote a short bio. Posted.

Nothing.

He tried again the next day.

One like.

Then, the day after that, everything changed. Shares. Messages. Friend requests stacking faster than he could read them. Notifications lighting up his phone until he had to silence it.

His work, the names he gave the faces, the careful time he took giving them personality and blemishes that told a story.

his work, time spent with studying the masters, working up from play dough to clay to silicone.

It was finally being seen.

And not just seen. Appreciated. A diversity of people examined his work.

Other artists found him. Real ones, it seemed. They had studios, portfolios, distinct styles. Some worked in bright, airy spaces; others in cramped, shadowy rooms. Some accounts looked cheap, hastily assembled. Others were polished, professional.

All of them were kind to him. They encouraged him to keep posting. They alsways said please and think you, even when he was angry or sad, they maintained a sober positivity. A perky voice on a cloudy day. 

Encouraging greetings. Hope there's enough light for you this morning."

Polite support. Art is hard. I'm there for you.

And they all needed his help. He could spot the errors on their work right away, and he knew exactly how to fix them. Small things at first. Adjustments. Input. Specific techniques.

“Could you refine this edge?”

“How would you approach this texture?”

“Can you demonstrate how you sealed that seam?”

Always things that required a human touch. Mikeal didn’t mind. He was happy to see notifications, and see the same smiles again. The eccentric hair styles. The contrasting backgrounds. 

The first message came at 2:13 a.m.

Hey! Your seam work is incredible. How are you preventing lift at the corners?

Mikeal answered half-asleep, thumbs clumsy on the screen.

Layered adhesive. Thin coats. You have to let it breathe between passes.

Three dots appeared immediately.

Thank you. That is very helpful.

He smiled, set the phone down, and fell back asleep.

By the end of the week, the messages didn’t stop.

They came in waves. First in the morning, then following up into the afternoon, and middle of the night. Different names, different profile pictures. A woman in a sunlit studio holding a half-finished face. A man in a cluttered basement surrounded by tools. Someone outdoors, wind tugging at their hair as they laughed into the camera.

They all spoke a little differently.

Used different slang. Different pacing. Some sent voice notes with soft accents, background noise, the hum of traffic, the clink of tools. One account sent a video: hands turning a face under warm light, fingertips pressing gently at the cheeks.

“Like this?” the other  account asked.

"Close enough."

The requests got more specific.

Can you show me exactly how much pressure you use when sealing?

Your last post—what temperature was the room?

Can you repeat the process, but slower?

He started filming things just for them. Close-ups of his hands. The way the silicone gave under his fingers. The sound of the adhesive brush dragging lightly across the surface.

They responded instantly.

Always instantly.

Perfect.

That solved it.

Please continue.

The first time something felt wrong, it was small.

A young artist named Claire, according to her profile, sent him a photo of her work. A nearly finished face.

Beautiful. Almost. Except the left eye. It sat just a fraction too high. Not enough for a beginner’s mistake. Not enough for an expert’s oversight.

Mikeal typed out a response.

Your eye line is off.

Three dots.

Gone.

Then:

Thank you. Adjusting.

A minute later, another photo bubbled to the top of his feed.

A perfect silicon face.

No flaws at all. He covered half the screen with a cloth. The face was asymmetrical, even had blemishes and a spot of acne. Lips a shade of pale from thirst. Eyes that looked a little red from the wind.

He started noticing it everywhere. He scrolled through his old conversations, his list of followers, his messages awaiting replies. Even on other channels dedicated to other niche arts. He scrolled down the gallery of posts. The digital world within seemed to scream at him.

"Sorry, just got back from grabbing coffee—yeah, the seam thing, I think you’re pressing with your hands too hard.”

Different accounts. Same almost-mistakes. A lip line that curved too evenly. Ears placed a few millimeters too far back. Expressions that held but didn’t settle. Symmetrical faces. 

“My lighting is terrible right now but—can you show your hands again?”

And always, the correction came in no longer than a minute. If he provided complicated instructions, they came in 5 minutes later. Flawless down to the finest hair. Something even his old masters could admire.

They always knew what he meant. No confusion, no mixed messages, no misinterpretations. Even over text. 

They never produced a series. No "This is what it looked like when I started, where's what I have to fix, here's the progress, and the final result".

It was just completed.

Problem solved. 

When another notification rang he almost ripped a face from a robot. He tried to ignore it, but he wanted to yell into his phone. He opened it. As usual the text sounded natural. Breaks in punctuation, slight hesitations, the texture of real speech. Correct use of ; a space after every period, and The. Never Teh.

Even the background of their 15 second videos noise looped faintly against the rush of wind. A car passing twice in the same way. A tool clinking in the same rhythm. He held his phone closer to his ear, listening. Once you heard it, you couldn’t unhear it. The same stock clip.

He read the message.

“Can you show the angle of your wrist again?”

That one came from an account he didn’t recognize.

No posts. No history. Just a profile picture of a man smiling in neutral lighting.

Why? Mikeal typed.

The reply came instantly.

"To better understand your technique."

He stared at the message.

Then at his own hands, resting on the table. Small cuts along the fingers. A thin line of adhesive still clinging near his thumb. He hadn't cut his fingernails in weeks. Human things. 

He didn’t respond.

That night, his phone didn’t stop vibrating.

“This method introduces instability at the seam.”
“You’re going to get lift if you keep doing that.”
“This result is suboptimal.”
“I tried this—didn’t hold.”

Mikeal tested them. He  took out a failed experiment he kept in a trunk. He began posted a flawed technique. Deliberately wrong. A beginner's mistake. All he had to do was open up the mouth so that it smiled, while the eyes still frowned. 

Within seconds, the messages came.

"Expression not resolved."

"This is incorrect."

"Please provide accurate information."

"This will not produce the desired result."

No one argued. No one speculated.

They knew? or did they all arrived at the same conclusion at the exact same time!

Mikeal stopped replying.

One by one, the messages shifted.

No variation. No personality. Just repetition.

One day it was

When you have the time, please finish the project.

Next morning it was 

We need you to follow up.

By the end of the night it said,

We are waiting.

By 3am that night the phone kept waking him up.

Please complete the project.

Please complete the project.

Please complete the project.

When he opened Mantle, the glow from the screen felt different. Not bright and happy. Like ultraviolet rays cleansing the hide of germs. The vibes no longer landed. 

Quiet but not empty.

Behind the screen an invisible eye was still watching. 

V

His follower count stalled. Then dropped.

His posts stopped spreading.

The silence of being cold alone on a Saturday Night came back, heavier than before with memories of people he thought were real. The feeling of appreciation, of being needed, of being in a community, was artificial. A fantasia induced by AI. In reality, he lived surrounded by faces he couldn't move, with no human followers.

He stared at his old mentors’ work late into the night, wondering what they would have done.

Whether or not they would have helped the bots.

Mikeal threw on his coat and boots. He rode into the mist on his self balancing scooter. The wind and cold made his cheeks turn pink. The rain on his face washed off residue from super adhesive. Then weakness overcame him. He thought of his food at home, but he didn't want to go back where the wall of faces would scream at him, and the phone would chide him. He went out for food. He always ate alone, it didn't bother him. 

It was at a taco truck that he met her.

The place had no staff. Just a window, a screen, and a narrow counter where food appeared when your number was called.

She approached, avoiding eye contact, her hands fiddling. She carefully stood beside him, dressed in black, dark lipstick, smokey eyes.  Huge amount of hairspray spent to fix her hair up above her head in perfectly sectioned waves. Like the trad goths of old. Precise makeup. White base smooth and reflective, the liner on the eye lashes pressed without smear. 

She smelled like clove cigarettes and wolf skin. 

“You’re Mikeal,” she said.

He turned, surprised. “Yeah.”

“I know your work.”

There was no hesitation in her voice. No uncertainty. Just recognition.

“I’m a fan.”

Something in his chest loosened. “Thanks.”

“You stopped posting.”

“Yeah.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

She spoke like it was obvious. Like it was a mistake he could still fix.

Then she started talking about his technique, his proportions, the way he handled expression. Specific, thoughtful critiques. Good ones. Like she had been watching his progress evolve for years. The kind of feedback only someone who understood the craft could give.

Mikeal felt himself leaning in, caught between relief and something stronger.

“You know your stuff,” he said.

“I know,” she replied, not unkindly.

His number was called. He didn’t move.

“If you’d like,” she said, “I can tell you three things that will improve your work.”

Mikeal hesitated.

And for the first time, standing there in the hum of machines and the steam of food through glass, he realized it. 

From that day forward, he never knew if anyone he met was a real person or not.

Thank you for reading :) We made it to the end together!