Franz sat on his bike, cigarette between his fingers, watching the entrance of the college through the thin veil of smoke. The campus loomed ahead, students moving in clusters, chatting, some rushing, some laughing. He took another drag, exhaled, and flicked the ashes away.
The first morning after waking up, he looked around his apartment and decided that if he was going to live here, it might as well match his taste.
’This place looks like a prison cell.’
[Unnecessary. Your current living conditions are sufficient.]
’Yeah, and Soviet blocks were sufficient too. Doesn’t mean they weren’t depressing.’
Thus began a battle of necessity versus impulse. He bought unnecessary and impractical things—spray paint for graffiti, paintings that had no business being in anyone’s living room, a heavy industrial lamp that looked like it belonged in a warehouse rather than an apartment.
[You are wasting funds on illogical purchases.]
’You are wasting energy on arguments you won’t win.’
The system fell silent after that.
On the second day, he decided he needed a hobby. He scrolled through various options before settling on a Gemeinhardt Alto Flute—black in color, sleek, something that wouldn’t look too small in his hands.
[An impractical choice.]
’Do you have something against music?’
[No. Merely questioning why you would pick a wind instrument when you have no prior experience.]
’That’s the point of learning, genius.’
He spent the entire day practicing with the system guiding him through the basics. His apartment echoed with clumsy yet oddly calming notes. It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t terrible either.
[Your playing is subpar.]
’And yet, still better than your commentary.’
The third day, practicality finally caught up. He needed a vehicle. After browsing through different options, he settled on a heavy bike that suited his frame, something that wouldn’t feel like a toy underneath him. Along with it, he picked up all the necessary books for college.
[Finally, a reasonable purchase.]
’Don’t get used to it.’
With that, he was ready.
He flicked the cigarette away, watching it land near a storm drain. He sat there for a moment longer, the engine of his bike humming beneath him. Then, with a sigh, he got up, slung his bag over his shoulder, and made his way toward the entrance.