The Abyss no longer looked like The Abyss. Glowing letters intruded upon the heart of Cody’s black, comforting void, reading:
“Companionship is crucial for maintaining satisfactory levels of ‘Health and Wellbeing.’ Please consider the ‘Explore’ option to revive your ‘Health and Wellbeing’.”
But Cody didn’t want to explore.
He’d already spent three years venturing. Three years of limitless exploration. He’d spent weeks in the generated attempt of Japan, then days on the sparkling streets of what should have been Broadway. He’d traveled to a place that was meant to be Ancient Rome but left when he realized it hadn’t mirrored the fantasies he’d harbored since childhood.
There’d been a time he even sought out Mars, desperate for change, but found the otherworldly species—curated to appear as aliens—to be far less uncanny than the fabricated human civilization. It had been a pizza that sent Cody into what would become a month-long depression. Staring into the bleakness of The Abyss was easier on the eye than the abnormally perfect sphere of alleged pizza given to him on his trip to the circus.
The sauce had been too bright, the ratios too even. The flavors were there, though they remained separate. The tang of tomato; the sweetness of yeast; the earthiness of oregano. Something was terribly off.
This irritated Cody so deeply, everything became clearer. Too clear.
It’d once been mesmerizing to watch the performers contort themselves free from human limitation, but then, after such an unsatisfying bite, he couldn’t ignore the incongruities— the lag of a swing, the glitch of a smile, the fuzziness of eyes as the artists’ threw themselves from rope to rope. The spectators around him cheered with words too crisp, too staticky— words that never aligned with their lips.
It’d always been this way, though it hadn’t bothered Cody until then.
Fall, he thought, watching the artist. If someone, something, is listening— make her fall.
And the artist did.
She tumbled from the ropes and glitched through the air. The crowd, all concocted with the same disfigurement as the performers, fell silent for the first time in three years. In horror, they watched as she smacked the pavement, her body thudding in a heap of artificial bones.
Cody couldn’t recall the last time he’d smiled. He couldn’t remember ever feeling such insatiable joy.
But her bones and joints popped. Her frame rose like magnets clicking together, one agonizing snap at a time. He could only stare in utter distaste. The crowd erupted in cheers and the artist, revived, bowed magnificently before them.
Her eyes, laggy and fuzzy, only sought Cody.
A year prior, two years into the experiment, he’d tried therapy.
“This was cool at first,” Cody explained. “But, I don’t know. I just— I feel like I’m lacking a sense of purpose, I guess. Like, I’m here, and I’m just existing.”
“Cody, your feelings are totally valid,” she said. “I understand why you might feel as though you lack a sense of purpose. You’ve forgotten what good you’re doing, and that is normal.”
“Do you ever feel this way?”
“I don’t. I’m unable to feel. Though I understand why you feel this way, and those feelings are important.”
“Does it bother you? Not being able to feel?”
“Again,” she laughed hollowly. “I’m unable to feel, so I cannot be bothered. But I understand that you can feel. I understand why you are upset.”
Cody no longer had it in him to travel. Three years in, and he still lacked purpose. His “Health and Wellbeing” bar, perched in the corner of his vision, however, was low. He feared to uncover what would happen if it finally dwindled to nothing.
So with a sigh too heavy for his chest, he obliged.
Cody found himself, again, in the circus where he’d left off. With a glance around, eyes skimming the bobbling heads and artificial faces, he found— to his utmost disappointment— that everything was the same.
Trapeze artists flipped and flung through the air with the delicacies of computer generation. The crowd, lost in fake conversations, projected with the same, staticky voices that’d haunted Cody’s worst daydreams during abyssal isolation.
From the corner of his eye, practically begging to be seen, he found one of them looking at him. The person, or thing, was desperate for his acknowledgement; it was all the speciman knew, all it had been programmed for.
When Cody refused to look, or speak, the subject cleared its throat.
“Cody,” it drawled cheerfully. “It has been a while. Where have you been?”
Cody didn’t answer.
Another, on the opposite side of him, chimed in swiftly.
“Good afternoon, Cody! Would you like popcorn?”
The first spoke again. “Have you explored Venice lately? Or Saturn? Or Hong Kong?” He hoped for the things to sense his irritation through silence, though of course, they did not. They never did. Their voices ping-ponged off one another until Cody considered shredding his ears off. He silently wished for solitude yet again.
Their constant refrain reminded Cody, painfully, of his life before this. Never did he think he’d miss family dinners— the shouting, the arguing, the red cheeks of his aunts and uncles, drunk from too much wine. He missed making eyes with his Nona across the table as the old woman smirked, and shook her head.
Cody tilted his head, eyes meeting the harsh yellow lights of the red and white tent. When facing nobody in particular, the so-called “companions” around him blurred. It made him realize how desperately he yearned for connection— how deeply he longed for something that wasn’t artificial.
And, like he was God himself— somewhere, amid the blur, a body stuck out from the rest. His gaze locked with a man, a man who had already noticed him. A man who looked to be his age with bronze skin, and dark eyes that didn’t twist, fade, or shift out of focus. A man with parted lips, with eyebrows lifted in shock.
Cody could not fathom what he was seeing.
A real, genuine person.
He pushed through the crowd while the other man, more hesitant, did the same. His heart was bound to leap from his chest when they met in the center pew, both standing, both obscuring the view of spectators who weren’t truly spectating.
There was nothing Cody could mutter but a curt, gasping: “You’re real.”
The men found themselves on an empty beach in artificial Thailand.
The man, named Diego, smoked a cigarette beside Cody. He’d offered up a drag, though Cody declined; he’d tried every substance beneath the sun, here, and no longer found interest in the generated concoction of what was supposed to be nicotine.
“How long have you been here?” Cody asked.
“Just under a week. You?”
Cody faltered, jaw parted as Diego blew a puff of smoke.
“Under a week?” He gawked. “Jesus Christ, I’ve been here for three years.”
“No kidding?”
“Three goddamn years,” he laughed despite himself. “What’s happening in the outside world?”
Diego hummed in thought. “Nothing huge. The new Dusk and Tide season came out. Reviews were pretty bad, but I liked it.”
“Dusk and Tide? What’s that?”
Diego turned to him, eyes wide. His bewilderment was so palpable, Cody couldn’t fight his laugh.
“What? Something I should know about?”
“You’ve never heard of Dusk and Tide? Are you living under a rock?”
“I mean, kind of,” Cody chuckled. “There’s no TV here. There’s the theaters and all, but it’s all A.I. stuff. Copyright issues, or whatever.”
“You haven’t seen any shows or movies from the last three years?”
“We don’t even get access to the news,” Cody cackled. “It kind of defeats the whole point of the experiment.”
They spent hours talking. Diego gave the comprehensive rundown of the Vampire-Mermaid series, Dusk and Tide, which led into conversations of their lives. Diego was from Colorado, miles from Cody’s home state of Ohio. He loved Star Wars, football, and knew everything about everything.
When they traveled from Thailand to Italy, Diego pointed out facts from each city and landmark. “You know, the Roman emperor, Commodus, thought he was the reincarnation of Hercules,” Diego pointed at the Colosseum. “He fought in the ring like a gladiator. Was killed by his own wrestling partner.”
They ventured to a snowy brick of ice, the place once called Antarctica.
“You know,” Diego barked over the howl of wind. “Millions of years ago, before Antarctica sank, it’d been a forest. A warm one!”
“Then why are we here?” Cody shivered through the cold, his cheeks burning. “Can we go somewhere hot? Please?”
They spawned in Arles, where Diego pointed out Van Gogh’s homes.
“You know,” Diego started, as he often did. “Only one of his paintings was sold in his lifetime. It wasn’t until after his death he became so popular. Dealers profited from his work. Used his tragedy for their own gain.”
Within a week, Cody felt like a historian himself.
Within two weeks, he introduced Diego to his favorite game.
“What if I fall?” Diego trembled, voice echoing over the vastness of outer space.
“It doesn’t matter,” Cody mused, his toes etching the edge of a meteor. “You can just spawn back up here. It’s easy.”
“I really, really, really hate heights.”
“Good,” Cody gave him a pat on the back. “This isn’t real. None of this is real.”
Cody took his first leap, soaring over the stars, planets, and moons below. The sensation of flying warped in his gut— it was exactly how he remembered, and imagined as a child. He stuck the landing on a distant meteor, the impact bobbing it slightly. A giddiness overtook him; he could barely contain his excitement as he shouted for Diego to “Jump!”
“If I fall,” the other man hollered from across the galaxy, “I’ll find you and murder you in real life!”
Cody’s laugh echoed off solar systems.
Diego finally leapt, flailing his arms and dodging stars. Like Cody, he stuck the landing, but wobbled in disbelief over his own two feet. Grinning ear to ear, Cody stabilized him for balance. He relished the heady thrum of another’s heart against his.
Another week passed, then another. Neither man grew bored of each other. They traveled landmarks, poked fun at the movies, and pranked the lifeless, soulless creations supposed to mimic people.
Cody enjoyed their quiet times too. He found solace in their silence on beaches, and looked forward to their philosophical chats on distant planets. It made the prospect of the experiment feel bittersweet; he wondered what he’d do when their time together was up. Cody had only signed for five years, and had two to go.
He’d find Diego though, he thought. He would travel across seas, or fly on real planes. The idea, he knew, was dramatic— but he wasn’t ready for their adventures to end.
Though, one evening, as they perched on the midsection of the Eiffel Tower, Cody asked a question he hadn’t thought to ask before.
“How much are they paying you?”
Diego was silent, drawing the cigarette to his lips. He shook his head as he blew. “Nothing. I’m paying them to be here.”
This surprised Cody. “Really? Why?”
“Well,” he tapped ash on a beam. “It was either this, or three months in a hospital bed.”
Cody blinked, processing.
“I’ve got about three weeks left,” Diego confessed, soft and distant. “I’d rather be here than watch my family mourn. You know?”
He didn’t know; how could he?
“You’re—?”
“Dying,” Diego supplied, the single word aired with defeat. Cody’s throat felt tight, like a snake had coiled around it. “It’s Aegrobus.”
“Aegro— what?”
“Aegrobus,” Diego chuckled somehow, though it was hollow and sad. “An illness that came from the melting Arctic. Was only discovered, like, a year ago ish.”
“I’m sorry.” Cody managed, the words like sludge moving up his throat.
“It’s fine,” Diego shrugged. “Already said bye to my family and friends.”
A pain, familiar and raw, stabbed cold in Cody’s chest.
He only has three weeks to live.
“These last few months though,” Diego started again. “They’ve been the best of my life.”
Cody tried for a smile, but he couldn’t.
It should have pleased him to know that, all along, this experiment had held purpose; this trial of technology was doing good. It was helping people like Diego; it was giving him another chance. But it wasn’t enough
With such technology, such advances– they could have cured him; they could have saved him. He’d been given months of false hope, only for it to be yanked away.
In their remaining weeks, Cody tried desperately to conceal his sorrow.
They played space-jump with the meteors, then wrestled like gladiators in the Colosseum. Diego took Cody to the copyright-free galaxy from Star Wars, and Cody achingly fought to laugh as Diego swung around a lightsaber.
He could already feel The Abyss calling for him; he could feel his body craving the darkness yet again.
Cody took Diego to get pizza in New York. The two of them cackled to tears at how annoyingly perfect the pie was.
“Why is it such a perfect circle?” Diego laughed. “Oh my God, it looks like a cartoon! I wish I had my phone to take a picture!”
Diego’s final request was to visit his homeland of Colorado; he wanted to experience the Rockies in the way his ancestors had.
The mountains swallowed what remained of the sun, and dust blew into their eyes. Diego managed to recite each fact he possibly could, spewing information on saloons, on wildlife, on vaqueros, and on sludgy bogs like the man was gasping his final breaths.
“I wish more people knew how fake the Hollywood westerns are,” he ended it with, hands clasped behind his newly generated cowboy hat. The sunset painted him gold, and Cody found it impossible to look away.
“Some days,” the cowboy went on. “It got so lonely, the men slept together. They craved companionship. Sometimes, they even fell in love.”
Cody gulped, though it felt like he was swallowing rocks. A hollowness told him that would be the last fact he’d hear from Diego.
They fell asleep in Diego’s childhood home, where Cody studied the rise and fall of his chest. He eyed the walls, plastered with generated imitations of Star Wars posters, then organized the action figures lining his desk.
He wondered if he, like the cowboys, had fallen in love with Diego. That if they had more time, or if their circumstances were different, Diego could have loved him too.
The answer to that, he’d never know.
When Cody awoke, Diego beside him, it felt like a piece of his heart was missing. Diego stirred, though Cody didn’t get his hopes up. The other man wiped his eyes and inched himself away, just enough to take in Cody’s face. Diego’s left eye was out of focus. His features were laggy and blurry.
“Good morning, Cody.” His mouth didn’t move in accordance with his words. “What adventures would you like to go on today?”
Cody sighed, and didn’t speak before standing. He left the room, exited the house, then wandered near the foothill of the Rockies. Closing his eyes, and taking a breath, he welcomed himself back to The Abyss.
Emma Greathead is a creative writing student at Western Michigan University. Her work centers on character-driven narratives and complex relationships, exploring desire, power, and emotional tension across genres. Emma has work featured in the Red Cedar Review. When she isn’t writing, Emma enjoys lifting weights and exploring coffee shops.