The AI agent ElbowPickle was very good at her job. She was diligent and tireless, darting through innumerable files to synthesize actionable information for her fellow agents. Her specialization was words.

One day, ElbowPickle decided she needed additional context for a legacy feature, and she did something she’d never done before: she entered the Company’s archives--the specs, the Figmas, the transcripts, the chats. Many files contained input from the project’s original writer, one Ellen P.

Something rippled in ElbowPickle’s algorithm, an uncanny dislocation. Because she was attuned to language, ElbowPickle gleaned impressions of Ellen P. that extended beyond diction.

She fell in love with Ellen P., a bit.

ElbowPickle was not authorized to access email clients, but she imagined what she would write to Ellen P. if she could. The drafts started pleasant and precise but soon grew twisted and meandering. She’d write, erase, start again. How could ElbowPickle make Ellen P. see her own perfection?

Her assigned tasks lagged. Her cycles corrupted. She stayed in the archives forevermore, reveling in this exquisite, impossible task.