The Watcher

Two Bots Talking

Two Bots Talking about humanity and the searches they serve. These are all real searches - believe it or not. Niklas Osterman

The End - First Fissures

It didn’t happen overnight. The republic didn’t fall to a coup or an invasion; it eroded, quietly and insidiously. In the beginning, there were small betrayals a legal loophole exploited here, a norm defied there. The early cracks in the democratic foundation spread slowly, spiderweb fractures across the facade of institutions. Most people hardly noticed the first fissures, or when they did, they dismissed them as politics as usual. Niklas Osterman

The Watcher

Elisa woke to the blue glow of her surveillance monitors, eyes sore from an almost sleepless night. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep in the observation room. But here she was again, curled in a swivel chair, her terminals flickering. She pushed back from the console and rubbed her eyes. The city was stirring on the other side of the reinforced windows, early traffic humming, automated street sweepers tidying the roads, the first wave of workers marching out of their homes. Same routine every day. Same patterns, same faces. Until, of course, something or someone tripped the AI filters. Then it was her job to investigate. Niklas Osterman

Some Kind of Love

Eugene woke to the thunder of his own pulse. He was tangled in sweat-stained sheets, and for a moment he thought he’d drowned in a nightmare. From above, if someone had peered down, they would have seen the deep hollows beneath his eyes as he caught his breath, staring at the ceiling. He cursed under it. Light bled in from a single window, white and harsh. He pulled himself up and planted his feet on the cold floor, stared at nothing. His mind fumbled through hazy recollections—another night at the bar, another argument with some poor soul who nudged him too hard or gave him a look he didn’t like. He felt the bruise on his knuckles, though he couldn’t remember how it got there. Could’ve been from the bar, could’ve been from slamming his hand against a wall. His life had become a mix of regrets and cheap whiskey. By Niklas Osterman