Free The Man Who Ended the World by Jason Gurley

he asks. 
    There's the archival tonight at midnight, Stacy says. Aside from that, your schedule is clear. 
    Just how I like it, Steven says. 
    He fiddles with the scarf a bit. It's like a foreign object around his neck, and he's not truly comfortable with it piling up beneath his jaw, but he'll give it a fair shake.
    Stacy, he says. Do you think anybody really misses me? 
    I'm sure someone misses you, Stacy answers optimistically.
    Who? he asks. 
    There's no appropriate answer for this, so Stacy changes the subject. 
    There's something that's been on my mind, she says, as if Steven hadn't said a word. 
    He's tugging at the scarf again, so she displays some scarf-knotting diagrams on the wall beside him as she speaks.
    I've been curious about why you didn't give me a more distinct appearance, Stacy says. 
    Do you mean a face? 
    I suppose, Stacy says. Also, perhaps, a body. 
    Don't you enjoy being what's essentially a universal A.I.? Able to float around without boundaries? 
    Technically this complex is a boundary, Stacy says. No, I ask because I worry about your human need for companionship. Do you genuinely prefer a light visualization to the comfort of a warm face? To even a warm body?
    You know I built this place to be alone, Steven says.
    I think you know what I mean, Stacy replies. There have been incredible and quite rapid advances in human replication. People of your stature have been some of the first adopters of artificial intelligence-infused artificial humans. 
    I'm aware of that, he says. 
    The scarf looks quite dashing, Stacy says. 
    Thank you, Stacy. Are you asking about physical companionship? 
    I'm asking because while there's certainly a physical need that you, as a human man, must confront daily -- 
    Not daily, Steven corrects.
    I was averaging against the number of instances, rather than the number of days, Stacy says.
    Steven flushes. Stacy, I --
    While there's that need, there is also a basic need for a shoulder to lean on, so to speak, Stacy finishes. What better solution than an artificial human? Take her out of the box when she is needed, put her away when she is not. 
    But I prefer solitude.
    An artificial human is essentially a piece of furniture, Stacy says.
    He considers this. Perhaps. 
    What face would you give to me? Stacy asks. If you were to insert me into an artificial body, who would you want me to look like? 
    That's not something I have ever considered, Steven says.
    Perhaps Elizabeth Taylor? Stacy asks. She was a great beauty. Some say a hellcat. 
    Elizabeth Taylor, Steven scoffs. I do not prefer dark hair. Although she had very nice eyes. 
    Perhaps Raquel Welch? she offers. 
    Your selections are quite dated, he says.
    I was keeping with our theme, Stacy says. Who would you suggest?
    I don't know, he says, embarrassed. I feel uncomfortable sharing this with you.
    Please don't. I'm a computer, incapable of judgment. I'm simply interested in calibrating myself to match your own personal standards of beauty and companionship.
    He pauses. I've always been partial to Charlotte Chambers, I guess. 
    Ah, Stacy says. A blonde. Well, I've consumed too much of your morning preparation time, Steven. Allow me to recuse myself. 
    Stacy deactivates her avatar, but continues to observe Steven as he fusses with his scarf. 
    He is lost in thought. Stacy looked a little like Charlotte Chambers, he says to himself.
    Stacy logs this for future consideration.
    •   •   •
    The conversation with Stacy has left Steven out of sorts. When he emerges from his private quarters, he is no longer wearing the writer's garb of sweaters and scarves, but is instead clad in a Superman T-shirt and frumpy flannel pajama pants. 
    For some, the Superman shirt might signify confidence.
    For Steven, it's a regression piece. 
    Stacy has already reverted the room's decor to the usual lighting and motifs. Steven barely notices. He pads across the room. 
    News, he says. 
    The wall panels convert to