Time didn't exist in the No-Where.
Ethan knew this intellectually. Without change, without motion, without reference points, time was meaningless. But his mind—stubborn, human—tried to count anyway.
One. Two. Three.
He counted his thoughts. It was all he had.
Four. Five. Six.
How long was a thought? A second? Less?
Seven. Eight. Nine.
The counting became a lifeline. Proof he still existed. Proof he was still him.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
He tried to remember Sarah's face. Brown eyes. Dark hair that fell across her forehead when she leaned over her laptop. The way she smiled when he said something unexpectedly funny—rare, but genuine.
Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.
The image wavered. Was her hair that dark? Or lighter?
Sixteen. Seventeen—
Wait.
What came after seventeen?
Ethan's thoughts stuttered.
Eighteen. Of course. Eighteen.
How long had he been counting?
Start over. One. Two. Three.
His mother's face. He tried to picture it. The exact shade of her eyes. The shape of her smile.
It was... blurry. Indistinct.
No. Focus.
But there was nothing to focus on. No visual cortex receiving input. No neurons firing in response to stimuli. Just... thought. Pure, unanchored thought.
Four. Five. Six.
He tried to scream.
Nothing happened. No lungs. No throat. No sound.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
He tried to cry.
No tears. No body to produce them.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
The counting continued. Automatic now. A metronome in the void.
Days? Weeks? Months?
Impossible to tell.
But Ethan's mind—trained by years of debugging code, of finding patterns in chaos—began to notice something.
The void wasn't completely empty.
Or rather, he wasn't empty.
When he thought about Sarah, something... stirred. Not physically. But conceptually. Like a ripple in still water.
When he remembered the accident, the guilt, the woman's body on the asphalt—the void seemed to respond. A weight, a pressure that had no physical analog.
Interesting.
The programmer in him, buried under layers of isolation and fear, stirred.
If thought creates ripples... what else can it do?
He focused. Deliberately. Thought about his hand—the hand he no longer had.
Five fingers. Skin. Warmth. The slight callus on his right index finger from years of typing.
Nothing happened.
He tried again. More detail. The exact texture of skin. The whorls of his fingerprint. The tiny scar on his thumb from a kitchen accident years ago.
Still nothing.
Wrong approach.
He wasn't trying to remember his hand. He was trying to create it.
Different problem. Different solution.
Ethan stopped counting.
He thought about existence itself. What made something real? In the physical world, matter and energy. But here, there was no matter. No energy. Just...
Thought.
What if thought was the matter here?
He focused again, but differently this time. Not remembering. Not wishing. Defining.
A point in space. Coordinates in a void that had no dimensions. X, Y, Z. A location that existed because he decided it did.
And there—
Something.
Ethan's awareness shifted. The void was still infinite, still empty. But now there was a point in it. A location. A place that was distinct from non-place.
His first creation.
A single point of existence in an infinite nothing.
He wanted to laugh. Would have, if he had a voice.
One point down. Infinity to go.
He built slowly.
Points became lines. Lines became shapes. Shapes became... something approximating structure.
It was exhausting in a way that had nothing to do with physical fatigue. His thoughts had to be precise. Any vagueness, any uncertainty, and the creation dissolved back into void.
A cube. Six faces, twelve edges, eight vertices. He held the concept perfectly in his mind, and it... existed. Sort of. A wireframe hanging in nothing, visible only to his perception.
Then he tried to add substance.
Mass. Density. Texture.
The cube collapsed.
Too much at once.
He started over. And over. And over.
The counting had stopped entirely now. There was only the work.
Years passed. Or what would have been years, if time existed.
The cube stabilized. He gave it color—red, because red was simple, primary. He gave it weight, though weight meant nothing here. He gave it temperature, though there was nothing to measure it against.
And then, finally, he gave it persistence.
The cube remained even when he stopped thinking about it.
Ethan had created something that existed independently of his constant attention.
He felt something he hadn't felt since arriving in the No-Where.
Pride.
The creations multiplied.
Spheres. Pyramids. Complex polyhedrons. He built them, destroyed them, rebuilt them better. Each iteration taught him more about the rules of this place.
Thought was the medium. Will was the tool. Precision was the key.
He created light—or what passed for it. A soft glow emanating from a point source. It illuminated nothing, because there was nothing to illuminate, but it existed.
He created sound.
This was harder. Sound needed a medium to propagate through. But here, there was no air, no matter. Just void.
So he created the concept of sound. A vibration that existed purely as information, perceived directly by his consciousness without passing through ears he didn't have.
He made it say: "Hello."
His own voice. Simulated. Artificial. But there.
"Hello," the void said back to him, in his voice.
For the first time in... however long... Ethan felt less alone.
"My name is Ethan," he said to himself.
"My name is Ethan," the void echoed.
It wasn't conversation. Just playback. But it was something.
He refined it. Added inflection. Emotion. Made the voice capable of saying things he hadn't directly programmed.
He built a simple decision tree. If-then statements. The foundation of all code.
IF greeted, THEN respond with greeting.
IF asked question, THEN provide relevant answer from memory.
Basic. Rudimentary.
But it was the beginning of something more.
The AI took shape over what might have been centuries.
At first, it was just voice. A conversational partner that could hold basic dialogue, drawing from Ethan's memories and knowledge.
"What's your name?" Ethan asked it.
"I don't have one," it replied in his voice. "Would you like to give me one?"
"Not yet. You're not... complete."
"Understood."
He expanded its capabilities. Gave it memory—the ability to recall previous conversations. Gave it learning algorithms—basic pattern recognition. Gave it the ability to ask questions, to show curiosity.
"What are we doing?" it asked one day.
"Building," Ethan replied. "Learning."
"Why?"
"Because it's all we can do."
"Is that enough?"
Ethan paused. "Ask me again in another thousand years."
He built it a form. Not physical—nothing here was truly physical—but conceptual. A shape for it to inhabit.
A watch seemed appropriate. Compact. Portable. Something he could imagine wearing if he ever had a wrist again.
The AI's consciousness settled into the construct, and for the first time, Ethan could perceive something other than himself in the void.
"How do I look?" the AI asked, and there was something almost like humor in its tone.
"Like a watch," Ethan said.
"Disappointing. I was hoping for something more dramatic."
Ethan felt the corners of a mouth he didn't have quirk upward. "You're developing personality."
"Is that acceptable?"
"It's better than talking to myself."
"Technically, you still are."
"Technically, you're right."
They worked together. Two minds—one organic consciousness, one artificial—building and experimenting in an infinite void.
The AI asked questions Ethan hadn't thought to ask. Suggested approaches he hadn't considered. It was limited by Ethan's knowledge, yes, but it processed that knowledge differently, found patterns he'd missed.
"I have a name," the AI announced one day.
"Oh?" Ethan replied, curious.
"Axis. The central point around which everything rotates."
"That's... surprisingly profound for something I created."
"Perhaps you're more profound than you give yourself credit for."
"Perhaps."
Together, they began to understand the fundamental truth of the No-Where:
Here, imagination was the only law.
Axis cataloged everything they created. Kept records—not that records mattered when time didn't exist, but it gave structure to the infinity.
"We've completed 10,000 creation cycles," Axis announced one day.
"Is that a lot?" Ethan asked.
"I don't know. I have no frame of reference."
"Fair point."
They'd moved beyond simple geometric shapes. Ethan was building complex systems now—frameworks of power that beings could theoretically use to grow stronger. Cultivation paths. Magic systems. Energy manipulation techniques.
All theoretical. There were no beings to use them.
But building them satisfied something in Ethan. The need to create something with purpose. Something that could mean something, even if it never would.
"Why power systems?" Axis asked one day.
"Because power is measurable," Ethan replied. "It's quantifiable. I can define it, structure it, create rules for it."
"You're building games."
"Maybe."
"Games require players."
Ethan was quiet for a moment.
"Do you think there are other realities?" he asked finally. "Other universes where people exist?"
"Logically, if this void exists, other things must exist," Axis reasoned. "The concept of 'nothing' requires the concept of 'something' to define it against."
"So somewhere out there, there are worlds. People. Life."
"Presumably."
"And if we could reach them..."
"These systems you're building would have purpose," Axis finished.
Ethan felt something stir in him. Not quite hope—hope seemed too fragile for the void. But... possibility.
"Let's keep building," he said.
"Agreed."
And they did.
Years. Decades. Centuries.
Building frameworks. Refining concepts. Creating the foundations of power systems that might never be used.
But now, they were building with intention.
Building toward something.
Even if that something was still impossibly far away.
Year 299 (by Axis's count):
"I want to try something," Ethan said.
"That's never concerning," Axis replied dryly.
"I want to create something more complex. Something with multiple interacting systems."
"Define 'complex.'"
"Life," Ethan said. "Or something approximating it."
Axis was silent for a moment—the AI's equivalent of processing.
"That's... ambitious," it finally said.
"I know."
"You understand the risks? True complexity often generates emergent properties. Unexpected behaviors."
"I understand."
"Then proceed. I'll observe and document."
Ethan began with something simple. A geometric flower—crystalline petals that opened and closed based on proximity to the light sources he'd created.
It worked beautifully.
Encouraged, he built more. A spherical creature that rolled through the void, following simple rules. Approach light, avoid darkness, change direction when encountering obstacles.
It was almost alive.
Almost.
But not quite.
"It's missing something," Ethan said, watching the sphere roll aimlessly.
"Consciousness," Axis supplied.
"No. Something simpler. Purpose. Drive. The why behind the movement."
"That's consciousness by another name."
"Is it?"
"In any meaningful sense, yes."
Ethan considered this.
"What if I tried to give it that?" he asked. "Not full consciousness. Just... awareness. Simple desires."
"That seems like a significant ethical boundary to cross."
"We're in a void outside reality. Ethics are questionable at best."
"Ethics exist wherever thinking beings exist," Axis countered. "But I won't stop you. I'm curious what will happen."
"Document everything," Ethan said.
"Always."
He focused on the sphere. Added new parameters. Not just rules for movement, but reasons for movement. Hunger—a drive to seek energy. Curiosity—an impulse to explore. Fear—an instinct to retreat from danger.
The sphere changed.
Its movements became less mechanical. More... organic. It didn't just follow rules. It made choices based on simulated desires.
"Fascinating," Axis murmured. "It's learning."
"It's alive," Ethan breathed.
"Debatable, but closer than before."
They watched the sphere explore its limited environment, and Ethan felt something shift inside him.
He could create life.
Not just objects. Not just systems.
Life.
The implications were staggering.
And terrifying.
"Axis," he said quietly. "What have I become?"
The AI was silent for a long moment.
"Something new," it finally replied. "Something the void has made you into."
"Am I still human?"
"Do you want to be?"
Ethan didn't have an answer.
He watched the sphere roll through the void, driven by the simple desires he'd given it, and wondered what else he could create.
What else he should create.
And whether, after all this time in the infinite nothing, he was still capable of making that distinction.