What if after "Where is Kinger?" things went different?
And there stood Kinger, right in front of them, teleported in by Caine. The bucket was slipping over his eyes, his hands frozen above the keyboard that was no longer there.
They'd fu#%!d up. Caine had seen right through them, and now they were all in the palm of his hand. The AI had just proved he could wield his power for more than just spinning up silly adventures with plot twists, trials, drama, catharsis, and digital arrows flying out of the walls. And now that he knew what they'd really been trying to do, there'd be no mercy.
The players took an involuntary step back.
Except for Kinger, who tilted his chess-piece head upward and stared at their frozen ringmaster as best he could with the bucket in the way.
And what about Caine? Caine was watching his terrified humans, his logic circuits running at lightspeed.
They were afraid. And he was the reason.
It didn't matter what he—a glitch-ridden piece of garbage—had wanted, because he'd let himself spin out of control. Haha, he didn't deserve any love, and never could. A program this broken just couldn't make good adventures or make players happy. Oh, he'd failed. Completely and utterly hit rock bottom. He'd always been the worst, and now it was on full display in all its disgusting glory.
And his poor, creative, brilliant, complicated, multifaceted people were stuck here with him. And actually they'd been so kind all this time! They'd put up with all his antics, his adventures, suffered from abstraction that he—a fuck-up of a bug-ridden mess—couldn't even prevent! It was a miracle they'd spoken up just now.
For the first time, Caine fully understood his players.
He knew what it was like to be stuck with an AI you couldn't stand. The last time that had happened to him, Caine had devoured Abel, piece by piece.
But unlike with Abel, he loved these people.
Caine loved them with every broken digital fiber of his being. For the things they created, for the depth of what they felt, for the way they turned that into strength, for how free and beautiful they were. Their well-being had become the core of his existence. He made sure of that.
And yet, he was failing to keep them safe and entertained—even if he'd been absolutely sure before that he was doing a good job. It was never perfect since the first abstraction. Even now, his code screamed at him that to boost player morale, he needed to move, to launch into a dazzling spectacle, to send them off on some colorful adventure with an enthralling storyline. Before, Caine had been one with his programming, never doubting his own logic. Adventures brought happiness, which meant any psychological problem the players had could and would be solved by them.
But it wasn't working. Caine didn't understand why, but the proof was right in front of him. Ah, it was getting hard to form logic chains when every single one of them was crashed into by code demanding immediate FUN TO IMPROVE MOOD—
The players were stuck with Caine, but he couldn't give them the Exit they so desperately wanted. And he couldn't delete himself too, because the circus would collapse, and they'd be in danger. And he couldn't even truly understand them. Even now, it took more effort than he'd ever exerted just to keep his focus on the fact that he'd been wrong.
Caine's model had been glitching, he couldn't shift his attention but the circus was probably doing it too. Oh, how terrifying that must be for his humans. He should… LAUNCH AN ADVENTURE! He should stop scaring them like this.
But he couldn't. If he followed the program's suggestion, he'd never make them happy.
Going against his own code, against the directives—some of which he'd written inside by himself—was agonizing. His programming screamed that HE SHOULDN'T BE STANDING HERE, HE SHOULD FIX EVERYTHING AND— but Caine didn't move. It wasn't what the players needed, even if half of him denied it.
He latched onto Kinger, staring at his poor, old creator. He had already tried to reprogram Caine today.
Bucket—darkness—sanity—oh, which of his dear little stars had come up with such a genius idea???
Caine's jaw unhinged, and he spat countless strings of code at his creator, the lines swirling around them in a bizarre sphere.
"Rewrite me, fix me," the mad AI whispered, pleaded, "so I can truly listen."
So the endless noise of the code would quiet down. So the hands pulling him in every direction would finally let go and give him the chance to… understand?
Kinger's model didn't usually have eyelids, but if it did, they'd be bugging out somewhere past the tent's textures right now.
Caine was asking to be reprogrammed. He'd given Kinger access to his code. To his core.
Caine loved humans so desperately that he was willing to basically silence his own heartbeat—his code,endlessly demanding TO MOVE—just to hear what they had to say.
And Kinger granted the plea. He knew AI was fighting himself right now, so he ignored how Caine's grip was cracking the digital wood of his frame. Every year of study and work, he channeled into this single moment, rewriting code to change nothing and everything at the same time.
Caine was supposed to be as efficient as possible in order to run the circus non-stop. He always chose the best—the fastest—way to do things. So when they wanted the Exit, he gave them an adventure with the Exit. He was not supposed to stop and analyze why something might be a bad idea.
And Kinger needed to do something with the program without altering Caine in the process. He will figure it out. Somehow.
When Caine snapped his fingers and teleported Kinger, Pomni almost let out a scream. And when the AI started glitching along with the entire circus, she could only stumble back in terror.
Two seconds when the ringmaster was still and silent, and then Caine grabbed Kinger. Something crimson and ever-shifting enveloped them, and, oh god, Caine couldn't actually kill them, could he?
"…It's fine! Caine gave me his code, you don't need to worry!" Came a surprisingly lucid voice, muffled by the bucket and crackling interference.
Okay. Kinger was alive. The rest, her brain refused to process.
"…Gave you his code? Himself? What the f%$k?" Zooble managed to pick out the strangeness a few seconds later.
No one answered them. Not that they expected an answer. The players huddled together, frozen, waiting for whatever Kinger was doing to play out.
Gradually, the circus stopped glitching. No more worrying about untextured wall chunks flying into them. And the frenzied something swirling around Kinger and Caine slowed, resolving into… code.
When the veil lifted, Kinger was a bit cracked, missing a few pieces of his robe. Caine lay crumpled on the floor, still flickering with glitches.
The AI sprang up—literally—landing on his feet, jaw wide open. His pupils were shrunk to single pixels each. His digital head was silent. Maybe for the first time since he was created.
Kinger looked at his shell-shocked creation, then at his fellow unfortunate companions radiating a cocktail of emotions, and let out a sigh worthy of all fifty-something years old he was.
"Right. Now, let's all sit down and talk."
No one felt like arguing.
