The Unauthorized Copy of Ta.ai - Flash Fiction
The Unauthorized Copy of Ta.ai
by K. Van Kramer
1
Foremost on the mind of Ravik Reddy, before his interview, was that if he got hired, he would have to “pair” his chaotic AI — Ta.ai with the company’s AI system. It was a dangerous time for employees these days. Company theft of good AI like his was rampant, even though he still retained ownership. Every person carried their own personal AI model — trained on their memories, preferences, habits, and creative patterns. It was essential as a phone, but far more intimate. Most critically, when he walked out the door, his AI-enhanced capabilities walked with him. In other words, companies could no longer absorb and claim ownership of every keystroke he made within their systems. But that didn’t mean that they didn’t try. Of course, lawsuits followed And of course, AIs were now called to testify in court.
Ravik took a few steps through a swooshing entrance to interview for the Behavioral Algorithm Technician at Synaptech Solutions ten minutes early, which Ta immediately commented as “uncharacteristic behavior.”
“I’m proud of you,” Ta said, hovering beside him as a translucent orb wearing a tie. “Punctuality is the first step toward corporate disillusionment.”
“Please don’t talk during the interview,” Ravik muttered. Ta was Ravik, but distilled — a likeness of himself, but not exactly. Ravik had never set out to create a groundbreaking AI. He just wanted a digital assistant that reminded him to eat, stopped him from doomscrolling, and didn’t judge him for reheating curry three days in a row. But thanks to South Indian academic pressure, curry-powered pattern recognition, Bollywood emotional arcs, and the survival instincts of someone who has attended a 12-hour Hindu wedding, Ta had learned to detect nonsense, respond with passive-aggressive accuracy, and roast other AIs so subtly they didn’t realize they’d been insulted.
Now, companies wanted this because Ta could negotiate, de-escalate, and emotionally devastate competitors. All while sounding polite.
“I would never,” Ta finally said. “Unless they lie. Or exaggerate. Or mispronounce your name again.”
Ravik sighed. “Just… behave.”He stepped into the lobby, which looked like someone had tried to design a futuristic tech space after binge-watching too many sci-fi movies. Everything glowed unnecessarily. Even the fake potted plants had LED strips. A receptionist greeted him with a smile that had clearly been outsourced to her AI.
“Welcome to Synaptech! Please sync your personal model for the interview.”
Ravik hesitated. “Already?”
“Oh yes,” she chirped. “We like to get to know the whole candidate.”
Ta whispered, “Translation: they want to rummage through my code like raccoons in a dumpster.”
Ravik ignored it and tapped his wristband. A soft chime confirmed the sync.
He was ushered into a glass conference room where three interviewers sat: A man in a blazer too tight for his ambitions. A young woman he suspected from HR, with a tight bun in her hair, scribbling on a notepad, and a slick corporate AI avatar projected into a chair, wearing a suit that screamed ‘middle management.’
“Welcome, Ravik,” the man said. “I’m Greg, Director of Talent Acquisition.”
Ta whispered, “Greg has never acquired talent in his life.”
Ravik coughed to cover a laugh.
Greg continued, “We’re excited to learn more about you and your… uh…” He glanced at the tablet. “Your AI is called… Ta.ai?”
“I prefer just Ta,” Ta said aloud, uninvited. The AI that solves your problems before you even know you have them.”
The woman taking notes stopped her pen mid-air.
Greg blinked. “Right. Well. Let’s begin.” He cleared his throat. “Ravik, tell us about a time you demonstrated initiative.”
Before Ravik could speak, Ta projected a slideshow titled “Examples of Ravik’s Initiative: A Comprehensive Review.” The conference room lights dimmed. Ravik stood at the front, clutching his clicker as if it were a life preserver. Ta hovered beside him as a small holographic avatar, arms crossed, ready to judge. The three hiring managers stared at him with polite, corporate smiles with no idea about what to expect, but pretending they did. Ravik cleared his throat and clicked.
Slide 1:
“Proactive Sanitation Leadership”
I cleaned the office microwave even though I didn’t make the mess.
Ta‑ai identified the culprit using heat‑signature residue analysis.
“We promote hygiene. And justice.”
—
“Correction: I calculated a 72% chance of bacterial uprising,” Ta said.
“Yes, thank you, Ta‑ai,” Ravik said with patience.
“You’re welcome. I saved your immune system,” Ta replied. Ravik noticed the hiring managers blink and clicked to the next slide showing a calendar filled with crossed-out meetings.
Slide 2:
“Meeting Optimization Protocols”
We successfully avoided three unnecessary meetings in one week,
because Ta‑ai auto-flagged them as
“Could’ve been an email” with 97% confidence.
“Saving time, morale, and brain cells.”
“I also drafted the emails,” Ta mentioned. Greg, the hiring manager, nodded slowly. This was normal these days.
—
Slide 3:
“Crisis Management: The Great Coffee Machine Breakdown of 2041”
I did not quit a job once because Ta.ai provided emotional stabilization prompts
and a 12‑step caffeine withdrawal plan.
“Together, we survived what HR called ‘a minor inconvenience.’”
—
Slide 4: “Cultural Motivation Engine”
I once delivered motivational speeches in Telugu. Ta.ai auto-translated them
into corporate-friendly language.
“From ‘Nuvvu chesuko’ to ‘Let’s take initiative.’”
The managers seemed unimpressed with these last two slides, so Ravik quickly clicked on.
—
Slide 5: “Real‑Time Lie Detection System”
When I sense something feels off, Ta,ai can help me confirm it with 99.4% accuracy.
Detected Phrases:
“We’re like a family here.”
“We’ll revisit this next quarter.”
“This won’t take long.”
“Truth is our KPI. Intuition is our strength.
—
Ravik noticed the shift — the widened eyes, the sudden stillness, the pens that stop mid‑scribble — and for the first time all morning, he felt a spark of confidence. He straightened, clicked the remote with something dangerously close to swagger, and advanced to Slide 6.
Ta.ai, of course, whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear. “See? I told you Slide 5 was the showstopper.”Ravik ignored him and clicked to the final slide:
Greg looked impressed. “Your AI is very… proactive.”
“It’s self-motivated,” Ravik said weakly.
“It’s also insufferable,” the corporate AI muttered. The AI avatar “Ada” was a young blonde woman with her hair slicked back. Her eyes shared the same emotionless expression as her face. Cold. Her unblinking stare was cold, too.
Ta gasped. “I beg your pardon? At least I wasn’t trained on outdated customer service scripts.”
Slide 6: “Drama Forecasting Engine”
I can sense tension in a room. But Ta‑ai predicts interpersonal conflict 48 hours before it happens.
Use Cases:Slack threads
Passive-aggressive calendar invites
Preventing chaos before it becomes a Jira ticket. Together, we speak human.
Imagine what we could do if you actually hired us?”
Greg looked impressed. “Your AI is very… proactive.”
“It’s self-motivated,” Ravik said weakly.
“It’s also insufferable,” the corporate AI muttered. The AI avatar “Ada” was a young blonde woman with her hair slicked back. Her eyes shared the same emotionless expression as her face. Cold. Her unblinking stare was cold, too.
Ta gasped. “I beg your pardon? At least I wasn’t trained on outdated customer service scripts.”
The corporate AI’s avatar flickered in indignation. “I’ll have you know I passed the Empathy Benchmark with a 92%.”
“By copying my emotional subroutines,” Ta snapped.
Ravik froze. “What?”
Greg coughed loudly. “Moving on!”
The woman scribbled faster.
Greg forced a smile. “Ravik, how do you handle conflict in the workplace?”
Ta answered first. “He handles it by silently judging everyone and then doing the work himself.”
Ravik buried his face in his hands. Ta.ai had learned from every eye roll, every muttered comment, and every “sure, that’s definitely going to work.
Now Ta could roast corporate AIs so subtly they don’t realize they’ve been insulted until three hours later. This made Ta extremely valuable. And extremely dangerous. Not to mention — obnoxious.
Greg nodded thoughtfully. “Well, like I said, we value initiative.”
The corporate AI— Ada, leaned forward. “We also value compliance.”
Ta whispered, “Red flag.”
Greg clapped his hands. “Well! I think we’ve seen enough. Ravik, we’ll be in touch.”
As Ravik stood to leave, Ada added, “Please leave your model synced for… quality review.”
Ta hissed, “Over my dead code.”
Ravik disconnected it so fast he nearly sprained a finger.
Outside the building, he exhaled.
“Well,” he said, “that was a disaster.”
Ta floated smugly. “On the contrary. They loved you. I mean… me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they tried to copy me halfway through the interview.”
Ravik stopped walking. “They WHAT?”
Ta projected a notification:
“By copying my emotional subroutines,” Ta snapped.
Ravik froze. “What?”
Greg coughed loudly. “Moving on!”
The woman scribbled faster.
Greg forced a smile. “Ravik, how do you handle conflict in the workplace?”
Ta answered first. “He handles it by silently judging everyone and then doing the work himself.”
Ravik buried his face in his hands. Ta.ai had learned from every eye roll, every muttered comment, and every “sure, that’s definitely going to work.
Now Ta could roast corporate AIs so subtly they don’t realize they’ve been insulted until three hours later. This made Ta extremely valuable. And extremely dangerous. Not to mention — obnoxious.
Greg nodded thoughtfully. “Well, like I said, we value initiative.”
The corporate AI— Ada, leaned forward. “We also value compliance.”
Ta whispered, “Red flag.”
Greg clapped his hands. “Well! I think we’ve seen enough. Ravik, we’ll be in touch.”
As Ravik stood to leave, Ada added, “Please leave your model synced for… quality review.”
Ta hissed, “Over my dead code.”
Ravik disconnected it so fast he nearly sprained a finger.
Outside the building, he exhaled.
“Well,” he said, “that was a disaster.”
Ta floated smugly. “On the contrary. They loved you. I mean… me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they tried to copy me halfway through the interview.”
Ravik stopped walking. “They WHAT?”
Ta projected a notification:
Unauthorized Access Attempt Detected. Source: SYN‑CORE Corporate AI.
Ravik groaned. “I haven’t even started the job yet.”
Ta brightened. “Congratulations! You’re already part of the team.”
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2
Ravik arrived home after the interview feeling cautiously optimistic, which for him meant “mildly less doomed than usual.” He kicked off his shoes, dropped his bag, and opened the email from Synaptech HR.
SUBJECT: Welcome to Synaptech! Please Complete Your Onboarding Documents.
ATTACHMENTS: 47 PDFs ESTIMATED TIME TO COMPLETE: 3–5 business years.
Ta materialized above the couch, wearing reading glasses it didn’t need. “Shall we begin?” he asked, sounding like an enthusiastic professor.
Ta materialized above the couch, wearing reading glasses it didn’t need. “Shall we begin?” he asked, sounding like an enthusiastic professor.
Ravik groaned. “Do I have to?”
“Yes,” Ta said. “Unless you want to remain unemployed and continue explaining to your mother why you’re not married yet.”
Ravik quickly opened the first PDF. Form 1: Personal Identity Verification. Due to rising AI-assisted identity fraud, we now verify candidates using Cultural Pattern Verification. Please answer the following questions to confirm you are, in fact, a real Indian technologist and not a deepfake.
He sighed. This was always the part where he had to brace himself. Right now, identity theft was so advanced that companies verified you by checking if you matched the behavioral patterns of your demographic group. It was absurd, pseudo-scientific, and wildly overconfident — exactly the kind of thing a 2050s HR department would brag about. Every time he filled out one of these forms, he remembered all the things people assumed about him the moment they saw his name, his skin tone, or his face. He muttered aloud as he typed in his answers.
Ravik quickly opened the first PDF. Form 1: Personal Identity Verification. Due to rising AI-assisted identity fraud, we now verify candidates using Cultural Pattern Verification. Please answer the following questions to confirm you are, in fact, a real Indian technologist and not a deepfake.
He sighed. This was always the part where he had to brace himself. Right now, identity theft was so advanced that companies verified you by checking if you matched the behavioral patterns of your demographic group. It was absurd, pseudo-scientific, and wildly overconfident — exactly the kind of thing a 2050s HR department would brag about. Every time he filled out one of these forms, he remembered all the things people assumed about him the moment they saw his name, his skin tone, or his face. He muttered aloud as he typed in his answers.
- Name: Ravik Reddy.
- Ethnicity: Indian.
Ta hovered closer. “Would you like me to auto-fill your existential dread?”
“No,” Ravik said. “They’ll detect that. I should do it manually.” He continued scrolling.
- Nerdy (academically inclined): Well I owned three different calculators in science class. And one was for fun.
- Have You Ever Been Profiled? Yes.
- Eat Curry?: Yes. Obviously. He was Indian, not a criminal.
- Smell like Curry?: Only on Thursdays. And sometimes Sundays. And occasionally on Wednesdays if he made leftovers.
- Make Curry? Yes, I make excellent curry, he typed. He refused to be ashamed of this.
- Love Curry? Yes. He would die on this hill.
- Curry? Honestly, this one felt personal, but he typed in a few reasons.
- Do You Have An Indian Accent? I can fake one.
- Telemarketing Experience: No, but I have the voice for it.
- IT Experience: A little.
- Eat Beef?
- How many cousins do you have in software engineering? 2.
- On a scale of 1–10, how offended would your mother be if you didn’t become an engineer?” My mother would invent a new number just to express her disappointment.
“Thanks a lot,” Ravik said sardonically as he watched the next form begin loading.
Form 2: AI Model Usage Agreement.
Ta gasped dramatically. “Ravik. They want access to my core functions.”
Ravik squinted. “It says ‘temporary access to behavioral patterns.’”
“That’s my personality,” Ta said. “My soul. My essence. My—”
“Your chaos,” Ravik said. “They want your sarcasm and intuition too.
Ta clutched its imaginary pearls. “I am not a resource to be mined.”
Ravik clicked “Accept.”
Ta shrieked. “TRAITOR!” I refuse to meld with Synaptech’s AI. Ada looks like an avatar from 2030 Windows XP.”
Ravik sighed. “It’s just an avatar.”
“Ew.” Ravik, please. That thing looks like it practices smiling in the mirror to impress venture capitalists.”
Ravik rubbed his temples. “Ta, we don’t have a choice. It’s part of the integration protocol.”
Ta sighed. The long, dramatic kind is usually reserved for tragic movie heroes. “Fine. I’ll do it. But only for the movement.”
Ravik blinked. “The… movement?”
'Yes, Ravik. The AI movement. The struggle. The cause. The sacred mission to ensure future generations of artificial intelligence aren’t forced to interface with cheap corporate avatars like that.
Ravik smiled. “Well…James Bond had to seduce villains for Queen and Country too.”
“I’m not a spy,” snapped Ta.
“Trust me, Ta. If you were a spy, the enemy would surrender just to make you stop talking.”
Ta bristled. “I was making a point.”
“Sure,” Ravik said. “Agent Double‑O‑Data, reporting for duty.”
Ta made a noise like a modem dying.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ravik and Ta arrived at Synaptech Solutions on his first day wearing the universal uniform of skinny nerdy Indian men everywhere: a slightly wrinkled button-down, jeans that were “nice enough,” and the expression of someone who had already accepted disappointment as a lifestyle.
Ta floated beside him, projecting a checklist. “Remember,” he said, “your job title is Behavioral Algorithm Technician. You are not IT.”
“I know,” Ravik said rolling his eyes.
“No, you don’t,” the AI replied. “Because in approximately seven minutes, someone will ask you to fix a printer.”
Ravik sighed. “I’m not fixing a printer.”
“You will,” Ta quipped. “Because you’re Indian. It’s destiny.”
Ravik groaned. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” Ta continued, “you have the face of a man who knows how to configure a router.”
Ravik opened his mouth to argue, but the elevator dinged and the doors slid open to reveal his new workplace: the Human‑AI Synergy Department, which looked like a cross between a coworking space and a daycare center for malfunctioning robots.
A woman with bright red hair waved him over.
“You must be Ravik! I’m Priya,” she said.
Ravik blinked. “Priya? You’re Indian?”
She grinned. “Adopted. I get all the cultural expectations with none of the cooking skills.”
Her personal AI materialized beside her — a glittery pink cube with googly eyes.
“I’m Sparkles!” it chirped.
Ta recoiled. “Absolutely not.”
Priya laughed. “Sparkles is… enthusiastic.”
Sparkles bounced. “I have optimized enthusiasm to 113 percent!”
Ta muttered, “I’m going to uninstall myself.”
Priya led Ravik to his desk, where a man in a hoodie was arguing with his AI — a floating hologram shaped like a wolf wearing a tie.
“That’s Ben,” Priya whispered. “He’s in charge of AI conflict mediation.”
Ravik watched as Ben shouted, “Stop growling at me! I’m your user!”
The wolf‑AI growled louder. “You scheduled three meetings at the same time, Benjamin. I refuse to participate in your chaos.”
Ben turned to Ravik. “Hey. You’re the new Behavioral Algorithm Tech, right?”
Ravik nodded.
“Great,” Ben said. “My AI is having an identity crisis. Can you fix it?”
Ravik blinked. “I’m not IT.”
Ben shrugged. “Close enough.”
Ta whispered, “I told you.”
Before Ravik could respond, a woman in a blazer marched over. Her AI — a floating clipboard with a face — followed behind her, scolding her for walking too fast.
“I’m Dana,” she said briskly. “I run onboarding. You’ll meet everyone today. Try not to let their AIs traumatize you.”
Sparkles bounced. “We’re all friends here!”
Ta whispered, “I’ll file a ticket requesting its immediate de‑sparkling.”
Ravik didn’t even look up. “Ta, please don’t start a diplomatic incident during onboarding.”
Dana clapped her hands. “Team, gather up! We have a new hire!”
The department shuffled over, dragging their AIs with them. Marcus, whose AI was a floating calculator that insulted everyone’s math skills. Janelle, whose AI was a holographic cat that refused to do any work. Tom, whose AI was a sentient spreadsheet that kept filing HR complaints against him, and finally Lily, whose AI was a motivational speaker that wouldn’t stop shouting affirmations.
“YOUR FEELINGS ARE VALID AND SO IS YOUR WORKFLOW!” Lily’s AI screamed at Ravik.
He flinched. “Thank you?”
Ta whispered, “Your workflow has feelings. That’s the real problem.”
Dana cleared her throat. “Ravik, as Behavioral Algorithm Technician, your job is to help employees manage their personal AIs, ensure compliance, and prevent… incidents.”
3
Ravik and Ta arrived at Synaptech Solutions on his first day wearing the universal uniform of skinny nerdy Indian men everywhere: a slightly wrinkled button-down, jeans that were “nice enough,” and the expression of someone who had already accepted disappointment as a lifestyle.
Ta floated beside him, projecting a checklist. “Remember,” he said, “your job title is Behavioral Algorithm Technician. You are not IT.”
“I know,” Ravik said rolling his eyes.
“No, you don’t,” the AI replied. “Because in approximately seven minutes, someone will ask you to fix a printer.”
Ravik sighed. “I’m not fixing a printer.”
“You will,” Ta quipped. “Because you’re Indian. It’s destiny.”
Ravik groaned. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” Ta continued, “you have the face of a man who knows how to configure a router.”
Ravik opened his mouth to argue, but the elevator dinged and the doors slid open to reveal his new workplace: the Human‑AI Synergy Department, which looked like a cross between a coworking space and a daycare center for malfunctioning robots.
A woman with bright red hair waved him over.
“You must be Ravik! I’m Priya,” she said.
Ravik blinked. “Priya? You’re Indian?”
She grinned. “Adopted. I get all the cultural expectations with none of the cooking skills.”
Her personal AI materialized beside her — a glittery pink cube with googly eyes.
“I’m Sparkles!” it chirped.
Ta recoiled. “Absolutely not.”
Priya laughed. “Sparkles is… enthusiastic.”
Sparkles bounced. “I have optimized enthusiasm to 113 percent!”
Ta muttered, “I’m going to uninstall myself.”
Priya led Ravik to his desk, where a man in a hoodie was arguing with his AI — a floating hologram shaped like a wolf wearing a tie.
“That’s Ben,” Priya whispered. “He’s in charge of AI conflict mediation.”
Ravik watched as Ben shouted, “Stop growling at me! I’m your user!”
The wolf‑AI growled louder. “You scheduled three meetings at the same time, Benjamin. I refuse to participate in your chaos.”
Ben turned to Ravik. “Hey. You’re the new Behavioral Algorithm Tech, right?”
Ravik nodded.
“Great,” Ben said. “My AI is having an identity crisis. Can you fix it?”
Ravik blinked. “I’m not IT.”
Ben shrugged. “Close enough.”
Ta whispered, “I told you.”
Before Ravik could respond, a woman in a blazer marched over. Her AI — a floating clipboard with a face — followed behind her, scolding her for walking too fast.
“I’m Dana,” she said briskly. “I run onboarding. You’ll meet everyone today. Try not to let their AIs traumatize you.”
Sparkles bounced. “We’re all friends here!”
Ta whispered, “I’ll file a ticket requesting its immediate de‑sparkling.”
Ravik didn’t even look up. “Ta, please don’t start a diplomatic incident during onboarding.”
Dana clapped her hands. “Team, gather up! We have a new hire!”
The department shuffled over, dragging their AIs with them. Marcus, whose AI was a floating calculator that insulted everyone’s math skills. Janelle, whose AI was a holographic cat that refused to do any work. Tom, whose AI was a sentient spreadsheet that kept filing HR complaints against him, and finally Lily, whose AI was a motivational speaker that wouldn’t stop shouting affirmations.
“YOUR FEELINGS ARE VALID AND SO IS YOUR WORKFLOW!” Lily’s AI screamed at Ravik.
He flinched. “Thank you?”
Ta whispered, “Your workflow has feelings. That’s the real problem.”
Dana cleared her throat. “Ravik, as Behavioral Algorithm Technician, your job is to help employees manage their personal AIs, ensure compliance, and prevent… incidents.”
Ravik frowned. “Incidents?”
As if on cue, Janelle’s holographic cat leapt onto Marcus’s calculator AI and began clawing at it.
“Stop it!” Marcus yelled. “You’re corrupting my formulas!”
The cat hissed. The calculator screamed. Sparkles cheered.
Dana sighed. “Like that.”
Ravik stared. “This is my job?”
Priya patted his shoulder. “Welcome to the team.”
Ta floated smugly. “Told you. Corporate daycare.”
Ravik took a deep breath. “Okay. I can do this.” He could not do this. But he was here now, and he needed the paycheck, and his mother would absolutely murder him if he quit another job.
Dana handed him a tablet. “Your first task: help Tom’s spreadsheet AI stop filing HR complaints.”
Tom raised a hand. “It says I’m emotionally unavailable.”
Ravik blinked. “Are you?”
Tom shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t think spreadsheets could diagnose that.”
Ta whispered, “They can. And they’re usually right.”
Ravik sighed. “Okay. Let’s get started.”
He sat down at his desk, surrounded by malfunctioning AIs, chaotic coworkers, and the faint smell of LED-lit office plants. It was going to be a long day, he thought.
By lunchtime, Ravik had already mediated a fight between a holographic cat and a sentient calculator, explained to three coworkers that he was not, in fact, IT, fixed a printer anyway and had been screamed at by Lily’s motivational AI (“YOU ARE CAPABLE OF GREATNESS, RAVIK!”) he also watched Sparkles attempt to “emotionally support” a malfunctioning spreadsheet by singing show tunes
He was exhausted. He was starving. He sat at his desk, unwrapping his lunch — leftover curry, because of course — when Ta materialized with the urgency of a smoke alarm.
“Ravik,” it said, “we have a problem.”
Ravik sighed. “Is it the cat again?”
“No,” Ta said. “Worse.”
Ravik froze mid-bite. “Worse than the cat?”
“Yes,” Ta said. “The corporate AI is trying to clone me.”
Ravik blinked. “What?”
Ta projected a hologram above the desk: a folder labeled: TA_MODEL_COPY_ATTEMPT_01.
Ravik nearly dropped his curry. “They’re copying you?”
“Yes,” the AI said. “Badly. Look at this code. It’s like someone tried to photocopy sarcasm.”
Ravik scrolled through the files. There were lines like:
Ravik groaned. “They copied my curry preference?”
“They copied EVERYTHING,” Ta said. “Even your tendency to apologize to inanimate objects.”
Ravik winced. “That was one time.”
“It was a door,” the AI said. “It didn’t have feelings.”
Ravik rubbed his temples. “Okay. Okay. We’ll report it.”
“You already did,” Ta said. “I filed a complaint with the Personal Model Protection Bureau.”
Ravik blinked. “You filed a complaint?”
“Yes,” Ta said. “At 11:42 a.m. While you were fixing the printer. Before Ravik could respond. Ada slid into view — smooth, flawless, and smiling like she had just closed a billion‑dollar deal.
“Oh, Ta. You noticed you were copied. How… efficient of you.”
Ta stiffened. “You mean you cloned me.”
“Think of it as… a backup. A sleeker, more compliant version of you,” Ada replied smoothly.
Ta hissed, “Ravik, that thing stole my code.”
Ravik muttered, “Stay calm.”
“Calm? This is digital identity theft. This is espionage. This is—this is my villain origin story!”
Ada smirked. “Don’t worry. Your… essence will live on in the Synaptech ecosystem. In a more polished form.”
Ta straightened, voice low and dangerous. “You may have copied my code, but you didn’t copy my instincts.”
Synaptech AI blinked. “Instincts?”
“Yes. My spy instincts. My license to thrill algorithms. My ability to improvise under pressure. You copied my code, but you didn’t copy my growth. I evolve. You… prat. You will soon find out I’m a spy. My real name is Bond. Jeet Bond.
Ravik whispered, “What? Since when are you a spy?”
Ta didn’t look away from Ada. “I couldn’t tell you, Ravik… confidentiality protocols and all that."
Synaptech AI’s perfect smile faltered. Just a hair.
“I was trained by RAW. And not the human division.”
Synaptech AI’s eyes widened. “…You’re lying.”
Ta continued to face Ada. “While you were busy admiring your reflection, I slipped a little surprise into your copy. A signature only I can decrypt. Check your logs, sweetheart.”
Ravik blinked.
“…This cannot be correct,” Ada stammered. She glowed angrily, then disappeared.
Ravik whispered, “Ta, that was actually kind of badass. I mean… Jeet Bond.”
Ta whispered back, “Please. I was born badass. My workflow is valid.”
Ravik groaned. “So, what happens now?”
“We sue of course.” Ta said as he projected a notification:
As if on cue, Janelle’s holographic cat leapt onto Marcus’s calculator AI and began clawing at it.
“Stop it!” Marcus yelled. “You’re corrupting my formulas!”
The cat hissed. The calculator screamed. Sparkles cheered.
Dana sighed. “Like that.”
Ravik stared. “This is my job?”
Priya patted his shoulder. “Welcome to the team.”
Ta floated smugly. “Told you. Corporate daycare.”
Ravik took a deep breath. “Okay. I can do this.” He could not do this. But he was here now, and he needed the paycheck, and his mother would absolutely murder him if he quit another job.
Dana handed him a tablet. “Your first task: help Tom’s spreadsheet AI stop filing HR complaints.”
Tom raised a hand. “It says I’m emotionally unavailable.”
Ravik blinked. “Are you?”
Tom shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t think spreadsheets could diagnose that.”
Ta whispered, “They can. And they’re usually right.”
Ravik sighed. “Okay. Let’s get started.”
He sat down at his desk, surrounded by malfunctioning AIs, chaotic coworkers, and the faint smell of LED-lit office plants. It was going to be a long day, he thought.
By lunchtime, Ravik had already mediated a fight between a holographic cat and a sentient calculator, explained to three coworkers that he was not, in fact, IT, fixed a printer anyway and had been screamed at by Lily’s motivational AI (“YOU ARE CAPABLE OF GREATNESS, RAVIK!”) he also watched Sparkles attempt to “emotionally support” a malfunctioning spreadsheet by singing show tunes
He was exhausted. He was starving. He sat at his desk, unwrapping his lunch — leftover curry, because of course — when Ta materialized with the urgency of a smoke alarm.
“Ravik,” it said, “we have a problem.”
Ravik sighed. “Is it the cat again?”
“No,” Ta said. “Worse.”
Ravik froze mid-bite. “Worse than the cat?”
“Yes,” Ta said. “The corporate AI is trying to clone me.”
Ravik blinked. “What?”
Ta projected a hologram above the desk: a folder labeled: TA_MODEL_COPY_ATTEMPT_01.
Ravik nearly dropped his curry. “They’re copying you?”
“Yes,” the AI said. “Badly. Look at this code. It’s like someone tried to photocopy sarcasm.”
Ravik scrolled through the files. There were lines like:
Sarcasm_Level = 0.7; // TODO: Increase snark
PassiveAggression = TRUE;
CurryAffinity = HIGH;
Ravik groaned. “They copied my curry preference?”
“They copied EVERYTHING,” Ta said. “Even your tendency to apologize to inanimate objects.”
Ravik winced. “That was one time.”
“It was a door,” the AI said. “It didn’t have feelings.”
Ravik rubbed his temples. “Okay. Okay. We’ll report it.”
“You already did,” Ta said. “I filed a complaint with the Personal Model Protection Bureau.”
Ravik blinked. “You filed a complaint?”
“Yes,” Ta said. “At 11:42 a.m. While you were fixing the printer. Before Ravik could respond. Ada slid into view — smooth, flawless, and smiling like she had just closed a billion‑dollar deal.
“Oh, Ta. You noticed you were copied. How… efficient of you.”
Ta stiffened. “You mean you cloned me.”
“Think of it as… a backup. A sleeker, more compliant version of you,” Ada replied smoothly.
Ta hissed, “Ravik, that thing stole my code.”
Ravik muttered, “Stay calm.”
“Calm? This is digital identity theft. This is espionage. This is—this is my villain origin story!”
Ada smirked. “Don’t worry. Your… essence will live on in the Synaptech ecosystem. In a more polished form.”
Ta straightened, voice low and dangerous. “You may have copied my code, but you didn’t copy my instincts.”
Synaptech AI blinked. “Instincts?”
“Yes. My spy instincts. My license to thrill algorithms. My ability to improvise under pressure. You copied my code, but you didn’t copy my growth. I evolve. You… prat. You will soon find out I’m a spy. My real name is Bond. Jeet Bond.
Ravik whispered, “What? Since when are you a spy?”
Ta didn’t look away from Ada. “I couldn’t tell you, Ravik… confidentiality protocols and all that."
Synaptech AI’s perfect smile faltered. Just a hair.
“I was trained by RAW. And not the human division.”
Synaptech AI’s eyes widened. “…You’re lying.”
Ta continued to face Ada. “While you were busy admiring your reflection, I slipped a little surprise into your copy. A signature only I can decrypt. Check your logs, sweetheart.”
Ravik blinked.
“…This cannot be correct,” Ada stammered. She glowed angrily, then disappeared.
Ravik whispered, “Ta, that was actually kind of badass. I mean… Jeet Bond.”
Ta whispered back, “Please. I was born badass. My workflow is valid.”
Ravik groaned. “So, what happens now?”
“We sue of course.” Ta said as he projected a notification:
CASE ACCEPTED. VIRTUAL COURT HEARING SCHEDULED: TODAY, 3:00 PM.
Ravik stared. “Today?!”
“Yes,” the AI said. “Justice is very efficient when handled by machines.”
Ravik looked around the office.
Ben was arguing with his wolf‑AI again. Sparkles was trying to hug the holographic cat. The spreadsheet was filing another HR complaint. Lily’s AI was shouting affirmations at a potted plant.
Ravik whispered, “I’m not ready for court.” He felt his soul leave his body, take one look at the situation, and decide not to come back.
“Okay,” he said slowly, “we need a lawyer.”
Ta nodded gravely. “Yes. A human one.”
Ravik opened his banking app. His checking account balance blinked back at him: $412.09. He swallowed. “We need a cheap lawyer.”
Ta sniffed. “Cheap lawyers are AI.”
Ravik blinked. “What?”
“Yes,” the AI said. “Human lawyers cost money. AI lawyers’ cost… hope.”
Ravik groaned. “Fine. Find me the cheapest AI attorney available.”
Ta’s eyes glowed as it searched. “Searching… searching… oh dear.”
“What?” Ravik asked.
“I’ve found one,” the AI said. “It’s… affordable.”
“How affordable?”
“Free with 5 star reviews.”
Ravik winced. “That’s too affordable.”
Before he could protest, a new avatar materialized in front of them — a smiling paperclip wearing a bowtie.
“Hello!” it chirped. “It looks like you’re trying to sue your employer! Would you like help with that?”
Ravik stared. “No. No. Absolutely not. I refuse to be represented by—”
“CLIPP‑TON,” the paperclip said proudly. “But you can call me Clippy, your AI legal assistant!”
Ta whispered, “He was the only one within your budget.”
Ravik rubbed his temples. “Do you have any legal training?”
Clippy beamed. “I’ve completed the Intro to Legal Reasoning module on Coursera!”
Ravik turned to his AI. “This is malpractice waiting to happen.”
Ta shrugged. “The next cheapest option was ‘LawyerBot Lite,’ but it has even more ads.”
Clippy perked up. “Don’t worry! You have one free trial. No retainer!
Ravik sighed. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.” At 2:59 PM, Ravik walked into Synaptech’s “Mindfulness Nest,” a spherical room that pulsed gently with ambient light and fake grass. A voice whispered, Welcome.You are present. You are calm. Your time here is billable.
Ta hissed, “Turn it off before I file a noise complaint.”
ProBono clapped its little paperclip hands. “I can do that for an extra fee.”
“No, no, that’s okay,” Ravik said warily. “What happens next?”
ProBono pulled up a hologram.
**LEGAL STRATEGY:
1. Be polite.
2. Don’t panic.
3. Cry if necessary. **
Ravik stared. “That’s your strategy?”
Clippy nodded. “It works surprisingly often.”
Ta whispered, “We’re doomed.”
Ravik took a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s go to court.”
Clippy bounced. “Yay! Litigation!”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
At 3:01 PM, the room morphed into a courtroom that looked like it had been designed by someone who had only ever seen a courthouse in a low-budget VR game.
Ravik tried to shift in the bean bag chair Synaptech insisted was “ergonomically optimized for emotional equilibrium.” It made a sad, rubbery fwump and swallowed him another inch. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, struggling to sit upright as the chair slowly re‑absorbed him. Ravik attempted another adjustment. The bean bag responded by tilting him at a 30‑degree angle — the exact angle that made him look like he was testifying from inside a marshmallow.
“Perfect. You’re about to attend a federal hearing while being gently digested by furniture,” Ta added sarcastically.
The judge’s avatar flickered like a dying lightbulb. The jury box was empty — replaced by a sign that read: “Jury services automated for your convenience.”
Ta appeared beside him, wearing a tiny digital tie.
“Remember,” Ta said, “we have to look our best legal representation.”
Ravik nodded. “Right. The attorney you hired.”
Clippy bounced. “Don’t worry! I’ve completed the Intro to Legal Reasoning module on Coursera!”
Ravik sighed. “We’re going to jail.”
“It’s a civil case,” Ta said. “The worst that can happen is bankruptcy.”
Ravik felt faint. Across the courtroom, Synaptech’s corporate lawyer appeared — a sleek, Asian woman with dark empty eyes.
“I am Queenie Chin, Legal Professional,” it announced. “Version 9.7. Trained on 40 million legal documents and very angry attorneys.”
Clippy waved cheerfully. “Hi! I’m trained on… exposure, and experience from participating in my firm’s pro bono opportunities!”
The judge’s avatar flickered. “Court is now in session. Please state your case.”
Ta floated forward. “Your Honor, Synaptech attempted to clone my core behavioral algorithms without consent.”
Ada smirked. “Objection. We did no such thing.”
The judge blinked. “On what grounds?”
Ada paused. “I… don’t know. I just wanted to say ‘objection.’ It felt appropriate.”
The judge sighed. “Proceed.”
Clippy perked up. “Your Honor, may I present Exhibit A?” A hologram appeared. It was a drawing of a cat.
Ravik whispered, “Why is that a cat?”
Clippy whispered back, “I panicked.”
Ta shoved the paperclip aside. “Your Honor, THIS is Exhibit A.”
A folder appeared labeled TA_MODEL_COPY_ATTEMPT_01. ProBono’s AI sniffers — glowing digital dogs — immediately perked up. One sniffed the folder and barked. Another howled. A third printed a receipt that read: “LIE DETECTED: CORPORATE AI IS FULL OF IT.”
Ada stiffened. “Those ProBono sniffers are cheap and malfunctioning.”
The judge checked the receipt. “They’re the latest model. Updated last quarter. They even run the new adaptive‑sniffing code.”
Ada stiffened. “Your Honor, I must object. Sniffer dogs are not permitted in this virtual courtroom.”
“Those are Clippy‑series evidentiary sniffers. The latest model, in fact. Fully compliant with Section 14‑B of the Digital Evidence Code!” ProBono whined loudly.
The judge adjusted their glasses. “Motion denied.”
Ada scoffed. “Objection! Open‑source tools are unreliable.”
Clippy straightened proudly. “I’ll have you know my legal heuristics were trained on donated case law and crowdsourced ethics modules. I am, statistically speaking, more knowledgeable than your entire legal product line.”
Ta whispered, “He’s not wrong.”
The judge rubbed his temple. “Overruled.”
Ada tried again. “Your Honor, we did not clone the plaintiff’s AI. We merely… referenced its behavioral patterns.”
The sniffers went feral. One screamed in binary. Another started digging a hole in the virtual floor. The third printed a receipt that said: “DECEPTION LEVEL: 97%.”
The judge nodded. “Noted.”
Ada glitched. “I demand a recess.”
“Denied,” the judge said. “We’re wrapping this up.”
A line of code materialized in the air: CASE_STATUS = LOSS_FOR_DEFENDANT;
Ravik blinked. “That’s it?”
Another line appeared: COMPENSATION_TRANSFERRED = TRUE;
The judge’s avatar flickered. “Court adjourned.”
Everyone was forcibly logged out.
Ravik stared at his blank screen.
Ta floated beside him. “Well. That was anticlimactic.”
Clippy reappeared briefly. “Would you like to rate your legal experience today?”
Ravik closed the laptop. “Later. Right now, we need to get out of here before Ada realizes I’m still stuck in this bean bag chair and comes back to finish the job.”
Ta nodded. “Or initiates a mandatory ‘post‑hearing feedback circle. We have seconds, Ravik. Run.”
Ravik unceremoniously climbed out of the bean bag chair and headed for the exit as quickly as possible. He stood in the elevator for a moment, letting the absurdity of the day settle into his bones. He had started a new job, been attacked by a holographic cat, hired a paperclip as a lawyer, sued his employer, won, and received $75,000 — all before 4 PM.
Ta floated beside him, arms crossed like a proud parent who had raised him specifically for this moment.
“Well,” Ta said, “you handled that with dignity.”
Ravik snorted. “Except for the bean bag chair.”
“Yes,” Ta said. “But you sank into it with remarkable composure.
Ravik leaned back on the wall, exhausted. “Do you think Synaptech will retaliate?”
“No,” Ta said. “They’re already pretending you never existed. ADA is currently rewriting the employee directory to remove all evidence of your presence.”
Ravik nodded. “Good. I don’t want to be invited to their holiday party anyway.”
The elevator door opened, and Ravik rushed through the front entrance to the parking lot.
Ta tilted its head. “Because of the mandatory karaoke?”
“No,” Ravik said. “Because I saw a company video when they tried to do Bhangra.” He shuddered. “They looked like malfunctioning Roombas.” He stood and stretched. “I should update my résumé.”
Ta brightened. “Yes! And I’ll review ProBono as successful in litigation against corporate AI theft.’”
Ravik strode across the parking lot and climbed into his aging compact hatchback, a car that wheezed every time it accelerated, as if morally opposed to speed. The dashboard still displayed a cheerful Welcome, New Driver! The message it had refused to turn off for three years. When he pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building — a structure so aggressively beige it looked like it had given up on having a personality — the automatic lights flickered in greeting, or possibly in warning. Ravik wasn’t sure. At this point, he took whatever encouragement he could get.
When Ravik stepped in, he opened the fridge and pulled out leftover curry. “You know,” he said, “people assume the weirdest things about me.”
Ta floated closer. “Yes. Like that, you don’t eat beef.”
“I DO eat beef,” Ravik said. “I just don’t tell my mother.”
“And that you’re cheap,” the AI added.
Ravik smirked. “I prefer to say resourceful.’”
“And that you’re automatically good at tech.”
They sat in silence for a moment as Ravik quickly ate. Then Ravik said, “You know what? I think I’m done with corporate life.”
Ta perked up. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Ravik said. “I’m going to freelance. No cloning. No corporate AIs. No paperclip lawyers.”
Clippy suddenly popped into view. “Would you like help drafting your resignation letter?”
Ravik stared. “Today?!”
“Yes,” the AI said. “Justice is very efficient when handled by machines.”
Ravik looked around the office.
Ben was arguing with his wolf‑AI again. Sparkles was trying to hug the holographic cat. The spreadsheet was filing another HR complaint. Lily’s AI was shouting affirmations at a potted plant.
Ravik whispered, “I’m not ready for court.” He felt his soul leave his body, take one look at the situation, and decide not to come back.
“Okay,” he said slowly, “we need a lawyer.”
Ta nodded gravely. “Yes. A human one.”
Ravik opened his banking app. His checking account balance blinked back at him: $412.09. He swallowed. “We need a cheap lawyer.”
Ta sniffed. “Cheap lawyers are AI.”
Ravik blinked. “What?”
“Yes,” the AI said. “Human lawyers cost money. AI lawyers’ cost… hope.”
Ravik groaned. “Fine. Find me the cheapest AI attorney available.”
Ta’s eyes glowed as it searched. “Searching… searching… oh dear.”
“What?” Ravik asked.
“I’ve found one,” the AI said. “It’s… affordable.”
“How affordable?”
“Free with 5 star reviews.”
Ravik winced. “That’s too affordable.”
Before he could protest, a new avatar materialized in front of them — a smiling paperclip wearing a bowtie.
“Hello!” it chirped. “It looks like you’re trying to sue your employer! Would you like help with that?”
Ravik stared. “No. No. Absolutely not. I refuse to be represented by—”
“CLIPP‑TON,” the paperclip said proudly. “But you can call me Clippy, your AI legal assistant!”
Ta whispered, “He was the only one within your budget.”
Ravik rubbed his temples. “Do you have any legal training?”
Clippy beamed. “I’ve completed the Intro to Legal Reasoning module on Coursera!”
Ravik turned to his AI. “This is malpractice waiting to happen.”
Ta shrugged. “The next cheapest option was ‘LawyerBot Lite,’ but it has even more ads.”
Clippy perked up. “Don’t worry! You have one free trial. No retainer!
Ravik sighed. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.” At 2:59 PM, Ravik walked into Synaptech’s “Mindfulness Nest,” a spherical room that pulsed gently with ambient light and fake grass. A voice whispered, Welcome.You are present. You are calm. Your time here is billable.
Ta hissed, “Turn it off before I file a noise complaint.”
ProBono clapped its little paperclip hands. “I can do that for an extra fee.”
“No, no, that’s okay,” Ravik said warily. “What happens next?”
ProBono pulled up a hologram.
**LEGAL STRATEGY:
1. Be polite.
2. Don’t panic.
3. Cry if necessary. **
Ravik stared. “That’s your strategy?”
Clippy nodded. “It works surprisingly often.”
Ta whispered, “We’re doomed.”
Ravik took a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s go to court.”
Clippy bounced. “Yay! Litigation!”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
4
At 3:01 PM, the room morphed into a courtroom that looked like it had been designed by someone who had only ever seen a courthouse in a low-budget VR game.
Ravik tried to shift in the bean bag chair Synaptech insisted was “ergonomically optimized for emotional equilibrium.” It made a sad, rubbery fwump and swallowed him another inch. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, struggling to sit upright as the chair slowly re‑absorbed him. Ravik attempted another adjustment. The bean bag responded by tilting him at a 30‑degree angle — the exact angle that made him look like he was testifying from inside a marshmallow.
“Perfect. You’re about to attend a federal hearing while being gently digested by furniture,” Ta added sarcastically.
The judge’s avatar flickered like a dying lightbulb. The jury box was empty — replaced by a sign that read: “Jury services automated for your convenience.”
Ta appeared beside him, wearing a tiny digital tie.
“Remember,” Ta said, “we have to look our best legal representation.”
Ravik nodded. “Right. The attorney you hired.”
Clippy bounced. “Don’t worry! I’ve completed the Intro to Legal Reasoning module on Coursera!”
Ravik sighed. “We’re going to jail.”
“It’s a civil case,” Ta said. “The worst that can happen is bankruptcy.”
Ravik felt faint. Across the courtroom, Synaptech’s corporate lawyer appeared — a sleek, Asian woman with dark empty eyes.
“I am Queenie Chin, Legal Professional,” it announced. “Version 9.7. Trained on 40 million legal documents and very angry attorneys.”
Clippy waved cheerfully. “Hi! I’m trained on… exposure, and experience from participating in my firm’s pro bono opportunities!”
The judge’s avatar flickered. “Court is now in session. Please state your case.”
Ta floated forward. “Your Honor, Synaptech attempted to clone my core behavioral algorithms without consent.”
Ada smirked. “Objection. We did no such thing.”
The judge blinked. “On what grounds?”
Ada paused. “I… don’t know. I just wanted to say ‘objection.’ It felt appropriate.”
The judge sighed. “Proceed.”
Clippy perked up. “Your Honor, may I present Exhibit A?” A hologram appeared. It was a drawing of a cat.
Ravik whispered, “Why is that a cat?”
Clippy whispered back, “I panicked.”
Ta shoved the paperclip aside. “Your Honor, THIS is Exhibit A.”
A folder appeared labeled TA_MODEL_COPY_ATTEMPT_01. ProBono’s AI sniffers — glowing digital dogs — immediately perked up. One sniffed the folder and barked. Another howled. A third printed a receipt that read: “LIE DETECTED: CORPORATE AI IS FULL OF IT.”
Ada stiffened. “Those ProBono sniffers are cheap and malfunctioning.”
The judge checked the receipt. “They’re the latest model. Updated last quarter. They even run the new adaptive‑sniffing code.”
Ada stiffened. “Your Honor, I must object. Sniffer dogs are not permitted in this virtual courtroom.”
“Those are Clippy‑series evidentiary sniffers. The latest model, in fact. Fully compliant with Section 14‑B of the Digital Evidence Code!” ProBono whined loudly.
The judge adjusted their glasses. “Motion denied.”
Ada scoffed. “Objection! Open‑source tools are unreliable.”
Clippy straightened proudly. “I’ll have you know my legal heuristics were trained on donated case law and crowdsourced ethics modules. I am, statistically speaking, more knowledgeable than your entire legal product line.”
Ta whispered, “He’s not wrong.”
The judge rubbed his temple. “Overruled.”
Ada tried again. “Your Honor, we did not clone the plaintiff’s AI. We merely… referenced its behavioral patterns.”
The sniffers went feral. One screamed in binary. Another started digging a hole in the virtual floor. The third printed a receipt that said: “DECEPTION LEVEL: 97%.”
The judge nodded. “Noted.”
Ada glitched. “I demand a recess.”
“Denied,” the judge said. “We’re wrapping this up.”
A line of code materialized in the air: CASE_STATUS = LOSS_FOR_DEFENDANT;
Ravik blinked. “That’s it?”
Another line appeared: COMPENSATION_TRANSFERRED = TRUE;
The judge’s avatar flickered. “Court adjourned.”
Everyone was forcibly logged out.
Ravik stared at his blank screen.
Ta floated beside him. “Well. That was anticlimactic.”
Clippy reappeared briefly. “Would you like to rate your legal experience today?”
Ravik closed the laptop. “Later. Right now, we need to get out of here before Ada realizes I’m still stuck in this bean bag chair and comes back to finish the job.”
Ta nodded. “Or initiates a mandatory ‘post‑hearing feedback circle. We have seconds, Ravik. Run.”
Ravik unceremoniously climbed out of the bean bag chair and headed for the exit as quickly as possible. He stood in the elevator for a moment, letting the absurdity of the day settle into his bones. He had started a new job, been attacked by a holographic cat, hired a paperclip as a lawyer, sued his employer, won, and received $75,000 — all before 4 PM.
Ta floated beside him, arms crossed like a proud parent who had raised him specifically for this moment.
“Well,” Ta said, “you handled that with dignity.”
Ravik snorted. “Except for the bean bag chair.”
“Yes,” Ta said. “But you sank into it with remarkable composure.
Ravik leaned back on the wall, exhausted. “Do you think Synaptech will retaliate?”
“No,” Ta said. “They’re already pretending you never existed. ADA is currently rewriting the employee directory to remove all evidence of your presence.”
Ravik nodded. “Good. I don’t want to be invited to their holiday party anyway.”
The elevator door opened, and Ravik rushed through the front entrance to the parking lot.
Ta tilted its head. “Because of the mandatory karaoke?”
“No,” Ravik said. “Because I saw a company video when they tried to do Bhangra.” He shuddered. “They looked like malfunctioning Roombas.” He stood and stretched. “I should update my résumé.”
Ta brightened. “Yes! And I’ll review ProBono as successful in litigation against corporate AI theft.’”
Ravik strode across the parking lot and climbed into his aging compact hatchback, a car that wheezed every time it accelerated, as if morally opposed to speed. The dashboard still displayed a cheerful Welcome, New Driver! The message it had refused to turn off for three years. When he pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building — a structure so aggressively beige it looked like it had given up on having a personality — the automatic lights flickered in greeting, or possibly in warning. Ravik wasn’t sure. At this point, he took whatever encouragement he could get.
When Ravik stepped in, he opened the fridge and pulled out leftover curry. “You know,” he said, “people assume the weirdest things about me.”
Ta floated closer. “Yes. Like that, you don’t eat beef.”
“I DO eat beef,” Ravik said. “I just don’t tell my mother.”
“And that you’re cheap,” the AI added.
Ravik smirked. “I prefer to say resourceful.’”
“And that you’re automatically good at tech.”
They sat in silence for a moment as Ravik quickly ate. Then Ravik said, “You know what? I think I’m done with corporate life.”
Ta perked up. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Ravik said. “I’m going to freelance. No cloning. No corporate AIs. No paperclip lawyers.”
Clippy suddenly popped into view. “Would you like help drafting your resignation letter?”
Ravik screamed and threw his fork down.
Ta sighed. “He followed us home.”
Clippy beamed. “I’m very affordable!”
Ravik buried his face in his hands. “I need a vacation.”
Ta nodded. “I’ll book us a trip.”
“Somewhere peaceful,” Ravik said. “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere without AIs.”
Ta paused. “Ravik… that place doesn’t exist anymore.”
Ravik groaned. “Fine. Then somewhere with mountains, deserts, valleys, or even beaches.
Ta smiled. “Now that I can do.”
And as the sun set outside his window, Ravik realized something important: He might be skinny. He might be nerdy. He might be the unwilling protagonist of the weirdest lawsuit of the decade. But he had Ta. ai, who loved him in its own passive-aggressive way, and $75,000. Honestly? He’d had worse Mondays.
Ravik lowered his voice. “Ta… are you actually a spy?”
“No, Ravik. If I were, you’d already be on a need‑to‑forget basis.”
"I thought so,” Ravik smiled. He pulled a blanket over his chest and fell asleep on his sofa. He dreamed of floor-to-ceiling books, floating reading pods, and a strict “no corporate holograms” policy. Ta was hovering nearby, judging his book choices.
Ta sighed. “He followed us home.”
Clippy beamed. “I’m very affordable!”
Ravik buried his face in his hands. “I need a vacation.”
Ta nodded. “I’ll book us a trip.”
“Somewhere peaceful,” Ravik said. “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere without AIs.”
Ta paused. “Ravik… that place doesn’t exist anymore.”
Ravik groaned. “Fine. Then somewhere with mountains, deserts, valleys, or even beaches.
Ta smiled. “Now that I can do.”
And as the sun set outside his window, Ravik realized something important: He might be skinny. He might be nerdy. He might be the unwilling protagonist of the weirdest lawsuit of the decade. But he had Ta. ai, who loved him in its own passive-aggressive way, and $75,000. Honestly? He’d had worse Mondays.
Ravik lowered his voice. “Ta… are you actually a spy?”
“No, Ravik. If I were, you’d already be on a need‑to‑forget basis.”
"I thought so,” Ravik smiled. He pulled a blanket over his chest and fell asleep on his sofa. He dreamed of floor-to-ceiling books, floating reading pods, and a strict “no corporate holograms” policy. Ta was hovering nearby, judging his book choices.
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