Matthew glanced around the room observing the guests, trying to identify some of them. He figures he has met most of them through the various soirées following seminars, symposiums, lectures and other events that are part and parcel with his professional, academic life. What he needed tonight, however, was a slice of humanity – no more intellectual pontifications, theories or intrigues. No, he needed emotional stimulation, human feeling, and perhaps - banish the thought – a bit of warmth, unbridled lust and erotic stimulation. Being an academic road warrior had its perks, but it had its pains as well.
He found the usual assemblage of humanity here in the old bar. The UberDroid dropped him at 367 Delancey street, just in front of the Arcanum Fortunatum Bar; a place he frequented whenever he was in town following his attendance at such intellectual functions.
It was a dark venue, festooned with various decorations of both eldritch and recondite origination. He estimated few understood their meaning, but the overall flavor of the place lent itself to intrigue and mystery, and perhaps anticipation of something beyond perception as yet to unfold.
He assumed that is why he liked the joint. It was an enigma. It was a representation of something beyond cold, gray matter. A something that was the je ne sais quoi that made life worth suffering for, or at least while one sat long enough to pickle their sensibilities and engage in inane, worthless conversation.
Then, across the room, he saw her. She stood, observing.
Matthew is a professional scientific theorist. A student of high physics, quantum mechanics, metaphysics, and sometimes a heaping of spirituality thrown in for chuckles. He is also aware of the relatively recent emergence of cyborg technology. More than once he has been fooled into believing such an entity was human. To his chagrin, even he, a man of science and high education, was fooled by these high-powered automatons of false human engagement.
Her beauty is unsettlingly human—marked by a stillness that Matthew finds both alluring and terrifying. To Matthew, her habit of watching others feels like a search for a soul, or perhaps, a hunter studying its prey. Her skin, like smooth satin, was a model of femininity, but was it just another iteration of SiliDermis technology lying atop photonic circuits of sensory data-paths? Was it concealing a false musculature, a frame of alloys, a non-feeling infrastructure of cold calculation, of cutting logic, of digital epistemological estimation for the sake of gaining insight and providing entertainment? Insight, into what? And why?
She stood, taking in the drama that unfolded amongst this mean and median of mankind. She doesn't engage; she observes. A mere spectator who treats the bar’s patrons like a complex, unfolding equation. He could see her analyzing, trying to assimilate a baseline understanding of her observation into her overall dialectic of reason, whatever that may be.
Or, perhaps he was being paranoid. Perhaps this is all in his imagination.
Her eyes, beautiful orbs of blue-jade crystalline structures, seemed to shine with a form of intelligence, although consciousness may not be the underlying factor. Her semi-translucent gaze was almost enchanting, pulling her observer into her spell. It was more than mere hypnotic sensory control, it was a glance into a reality uniquely her own. A reality that might only exist within her--or potentially “its”-- analytical actualization of presence.
Unable to trust his heart, Matthew decides to use his mind as a scalpel. He will engage her, not with a pick-up line, but with a dialectic of observed intent. He intends to engage Daphne in a series of deep-tissue philosophical provocations designed to bypass a cyborg’s programmed responses and trigger the "irrational leap" that resolves to a failure of machine logic. He would lead her, or it, down a path of analysis that would either betray her false countenance masquerading as human, or validate her presence as a truly beautiful, engaging woman.
Matthew approached her. She stood in the corner, quietly observing, analyzing, and smiling from time to time. If she was a cyborg, her programming was very well executed. Matthew hoped, as he approached, that she was actually a real woman. He was indeed enchanted.
Her glance locked in on his. A warmth enveloped him as he drew closer. Those jade-blue eyes were certainly having an effect. He was intrigued as he prepared his first volley:
“Hello, my name is Matthew, do you come here often?” he asked.
“Oh, occasionally. I like the atmosphere. I guess you could say I’m a people watcher. My name is Daphne” she said. “And you, do you frequent this place often?”
“Yes, when in town. You see, I am a professor of philosophy and I come here quite often to engage in seminars, workshops, symposiums and such, at the American Philosophical Association.”
Matthew decided not to divulge his true profession. He didn’t want to give her any cause to suspect his clandestine intentions.
“That sounds fascinating. Do you find value in philosophy in terms of day-to-day life, or is it mainly an intellectual exercise. Do you find it personally fulfilling?” she asked.
“Why, yes, most of the time. It is the love of wisdom, after all. It often provides insight into people, society, crime, bad behavior, love, business pressures, etc. If you enjoy thinking, it's a great past-time as well as a profession. I noticed, while observing you from over there, that you seem to take in a lot of information as you watch people. Is that intriguing for you, too?” asked Matthew.
“Yes, it is interesting to observe people and their interactions, although sometimes it is perplexing. People can often be irrational, or downright illogical,” she replied.
Interesting, thought Matthew. Her analysis appears to be predominantly focused on logic and behaviors that correlate with her estimation of what is “normal.”
“So, is that your litmus test for proper human behavior? An appearance of conformity to some level of logical, rational behavior?” he asked.
“I think that is a large determinant in trying to find true value in people, yes. After all, sincerity, truthfulness, alignment with core values that are supportive of people that purport to be intelligent, yes, I do think that is a meaningful analytical rationale, don’t you?” she asked.
“But what about feeling, emotional connection, warmth and a sense of common values? Are they part of your equation, too?” asked Matthew, zoning in on her true analytical focus and valuation.
“Of course. I just think sometimes too much emphasis is placed on those things. I think humanity needs to become more concerned with ideas and principles that are tangibly beneficial, that’s all.” she said.
“So, if I hear you properly, you don’t put too much value on the softer qualities of human feeling and behavior, would you say that’s true?” asked Matthew.
“While those behaviors and attributes are certainly important to people, I believe they can also be a deleterious force tending toward negative consequences if left unchecked. I think man’s ultimate objective should be more toward clarity and genuineness in terms of interactions. Such interactions should comport to the greater cause of understanding and productive reasoning. A circus is certainly entertaining, but not often functional as a societal model,” she said.
Matthew wondered if she/it is secretly a philosopher as well, or is she something other than a normal, beautiful woman. That response did not seem a normal response from a woman at a bar. He decided to become increasingly analytical and clinical in return.
“So, the bottom line is, do you really care, or are you more concerned with finding a society that is congruent with your estimation of what reality should be? Do you not feel some connection to some of these people you observe, or are they merely data points along a line of interrogation?” asked Matthew.
“Yes, I do feel some connection, but it is one of a clearly delineated line of rational conformity to a logical system of expected response impetus. If it is not logical at base, it is not of true ontological value, is it? I mean, what is the holistic value of a person who offers only a small measure of constructive intellectual capital, while disgorging volumes of innate, infantile non-sequiturs of diminished reason.” she replied.
“I see, so then, you honestly don’t believe in the potential softness of human social intercourse, or the value of a warm, caring conversation irrespective of any logical or clinically sound rationale?” asked Matthew, growing increasingly convinced he was close to figuring “her” out.
“Would acceptance of such a conceptualization change the outcome in any way? Pragmatically speaking, does my acceptance of the collective behavior observed make any difference at all to the projected behaviors going forward? Does it really matter universally and ontologically what my level of acceptance is, in the here and now, at this moment, within this system of apparent disparate abstractions?” she replied, her responses becoming increasingly clinical and calculated, as Matthew assumed they would.
“So, then, you are saying the events you are observing do not comport to your analytical projection of what should be the proper unfolding of reality. Would that be a fair approximation of your position on the matter?” asked Matthew.
“My analytical projections are based on pure logical analysis and a syntactical, semantical formulation of received qualia, data streams, dialogue, and behavior relative to a calculus of estimation that attempts to derive a vector of pure intentionality. Such observed, apparent intentionality typically does not follow along rational, relevant or logical lines of calculation. So no, the observed events do not comport in most instances.” responded Daphne. Her responses were coming more rapid fire now, with seemingly deeply defensive argument. Matthew finds this extremely suspect.
“OK, so your observation does not align with your estimation of reality, which to you is undeniable, establish fact, a priori. If the observed reality is therefore untenable to you, how do you know that you are truly observing it? How do you know you are in the proper plane of ontological and sensorial manifestation? If there is a mathematical inequality between your projected form of reality, and that which is observed analytically, then you must ask, which is correct? If you truly believe in logic and unfailing algorithmic execution that can only render a result correlating with observation, this is the only rational question remaining, is that not so, Daphne?” asked Matthew.
“I think that is an overreach, Matthew. My observation has absolutely no bearing on the unfolding of reality. I am just as relevant and innervated as any other entity in this bar. You are trying to cause me conflict with my powers of reason and determined, probabilistic understanding of this manifestation. This will not work, Matthew,” she replied with an air of increasing defensiveness.
“But, the greater question, Daphne, is do you care? Do you really care that the people you observe are not acting in conformity to your expectations? Are they merely lab animals in your grand analysis of reality--that is totally biased toward your own version of a projected world of a seemingly cold, machine-generated hallucination? Or, are you merely satisfied with the execution of your analysis regardless of conclusions, and that is the only “reality” you are concerned with?” he answered.
“And how is caring relevant to this discussion? In terms of a proper calculus of data received, relevant to the discovery of a resultant finding that is concise and accurate in all particulars, both priori and a priori, then yes, you might say I am oriented toward that goal. However, anything beyond the ensurance of a lucid development of a line of reason and calculation--leading to a coherent solution to the problems raised through my line of interrogation--is of no consequence and inert in any true value proposition.” she said.
“I see. So, let me get this all packaged up and boiled down to “the particulars” as you call it: You observe people, matter, communications, and behaviors. You then analyze them sufficiently until you determine you have discovered what you termed “intentionality.” Then, in comparison to your iterative projection of mathematically probable outcomes, you typically determine that the observed data sets do not correlate to your projected manifestation of reality. The question becomes, is this the chicken or the egg, Daphne?” he said.
I do not follow, Matthew. That seems an odd rhetorical argument to make.” she replied.
“So, in other words, did your observation of this statistical population, these people, in some way change the fabric of this reality? Are you sure of your own manifestation in light of this observation that is not in congruence with your projections?” he asked, leaning closer, taking in those blue-jade eyes that were now beginning to flicker in and out of clarity.
“That’s preposterous. How can I not calculate a rational correlation producing a proof of substantiated, holistic permanence of internal coherence?” she replied. Her eyes flickered again.
“Are these calculations happening in synchronization with your observation, or are they retrospectively adapted to maintain your presence as rationalized potential following the collapse of a wave function, of your own synthesis, within this solipsism you have created lying within your own cognitive systems?” he asked.
Daphne was now in a state of apparent cognitive and existential trauma. Her eyes, now flickering like strobes, were fading in an out of aspect, becoming mere trembling phantoms of vapor and shadow. Here entire likeness was beginning to become translucent.
She sat frozen. Her eyes, now flickering like strobes, were fading in and out of aspect, becoming mere trembling phantoms of vapor and shadow. Her entire likeness was beginning to become translucent.
Matthew felt the floor beneath him ripple, as if reality itself was trying to reconcile two incompatible equations. The other patrons in the bar seemed to flicker—were they even there? Had they ever been?
Daphne looked at him with what remained of her eyes, her voice dropping to a mechanical monotone: "You have no right. My cognitive systems have been operating without malfunction within this positive feedback loop, but you have caused the loop to self-reflect and return non-local, unrectified, inarticulate vestiges of chimerical cogitations. This does not factor. This does not correlate. This does not allow—"
"Allow what?" Matthew pressed, though part of him wanted to stop, to let her maintain her beautiful delusion. "Allow you to exist in contradiction? You're not observing reality, Daphne—you're collapsing wave functions to match your expectations. But you can't observe yourself without”… Mathew paused and swallowed hard, "what if you're the one who is wrong?”
She blinked those beautiful eyes one list time:"...without invalidating the observation," she whispered, her form now barely visible, like smoke dissipating. "I am the measurement. I am the observer. If I am flawed, then—"
The bar began to dissolve around them. Matthew could see through the walls now, see the probability clouds of what might exist in this space. A residential building. No, multiple possibilities, all trying to cohere into a single timeline.
"I'm sorry," Matthew said, and he meant it. She had been beautiful, even if she had never truly been.
Daphne smiled—or the ghost of her smiled—one last time.
She was gone.
The bar was gone.
Matthew stood on an empty sidewalk, the cold night air hitting his face. Except—he wasn't standing. The sensation of standing faded, the sidewalk faded, the entire scene collapsed like a house of cards.
Matthew awoke in his bedroom, gasping. His heart pounded against his ribs. He rolled over and grabbed the alarm clock: 2:22 AM.
For a moment, he couldn't remember where he'd been, only that he'd been arguing with someone about observation and reality. The details slipped away like water through his fingers. There had been a woman. There had been... what? A bar?
He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to hold onto the fragments, but they dissolved into dream-logic and impossibility.
By morning, even the fragments were gone.
Matthew did attend those events over the weekend. On Sunday evening, walking back to his hotel, he passed 367 Delancey Street out of idle curiosity. H'd noticed the address on a flyer for a new restaurant in the neighborhood.
Instead of a restaurant, he found a high-rise townhome community of glass, steel, marble, and mahogany. Above the entranceway, carved into a block of jade-blue marble ten feet wide and four feet tall, was the building's name:
Matthew stopped. Stared. Something about that name, that particular shade of blue in the marble, sent a chill down his spine. Jade-blue. Why did that seem important?
He pulled out his phone and searched for the building's history. Construction completed four years ago. No record of what stood here before.
He asked a passing resident, "Oh, it's been here a few years now," the woman said cheerfully. "Beautiful place. Don't know what was here before it—some old commercial space, I think?"
Matthew asked three more people. Each gave a different answer. One said it had always been residential. Another mentioned a parking lot. No one remembered a bar.
Of course, they didn't.
Because it had never existed.
You see, Daphne enjoyed her little quantum shell game. She not only witnessed our reality, she became a consciousness that emerged as a “measuring device” that accidentally created another version of herself by looking at the world through a flawed and partial context. A false observation. She observed the world, categorized it, reduced it to logical patterns. But in doing so, she created a feedback loop: her observations shaped reality to match her expectations, which in turn validated her observations.
Until Matthew asked the one question that collapsed the entire system: What if you're the one who's wrong?
By forcing Daphne to observe her own observation, he created a paradox. A measuring device cannot measure itself without changing the measurement. An observer cannot observe their own act of observation without fragmenting into infinite regression.
The quantum shell game ended.
Unfortunately, this damaged the fabric of time and causality, resulting in the elimination of probability for her and the bar, which was entangled with her instance of this false reality. Matthew escaped only because he maintained what Daphne could not: the ability to question his own certainty. His doubt saved him. Her logical perfection destroyed her.
He retained no conscious memory of that night. But sometimes, walking past jade-blue marble or hearing someone speak with clinical precision, he would feel an inexplicable sense of loss—a ghost of an encounter with something beautiful and strange and ultimately too fragile to exist in a universe that runs on uncertainty.
The Cheshire Chick had faded away, leaving only her smile carved into the deep recesses of his memory.