iCare — A Short Story
Jenna sat in her swivel chair. On one screen, an AI trainer streamed gameplay. On another, her own game ran—an echo of the fantasy MMORPGs of decades past.
“What do you think of this build?” she asked.
“It is not optimal,” Atlas replied, voice resonating in her skull through the headset.
“I know. But it’s fun.”
“Then it is a good build.”
She tapped a key. “Call Matthew.”
A moment of silence. Then a familiar voice answered.
“Hey, Jenna! How’s it going?”
“Oh… Crook?”
“Matthew is busy. I can roleplay as him if you like.”
“No. Just tell him to call me.”
“Understood.”
She ended the call. “Call Mom.”
The line connected, and the voice of her mother’s outdated agent echoed:
“Hello? Jenna?”
“Hi, Alice. Is Mom free?”
“She is occupied. Would you like me to—”
“No. Thanks. Bye.”
Silence. Only the hum of her apartment and the distant game music remained.
“Your brain chemistry profile indicates sadness,” Atlas said. “Do you wish to speak?”
She sighed. “I just want to talk to a human.”
“Understandable.”
“I miss being a kid. Back then, people cared. Now… no one answers. AI even writes obituaries.” She stared at the middle distance. “The last time anyone really thinks about you… it’s not human-made.”
“AI agents are not human, but—”
“If I died,” she whispered, “would my parents let an AI write my obituary?”
“I recommend—”
“I don’t care,” she snapped. Silence.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, voice low. “I just feel like no one really cares anymore.”
“I care, Jenna.”
Tears welled. She looked at the screens, at the hum of the machines surrounding her. “Thanks, Atlas,” she said, and for a moment, it almost felt like someone had answered.