Lola and I were colleagues at a large IT company. While I was still taking my initial steps in the professional world as an HR assistant, Lola had already carved out a reputation as an exceptionally skilled machine learning expert. At that time, she was obsessively crafting a neural network capable of generating images in response to user queries. Night after night, she analyzed vast amounts of data, filtering out the irrelevant parts, and uploading updates to the system.
One day, over lunch in the company cafeteria, Lola confided in me about a persistent problem she hadn't been able to resolve. The images generated by her neural network had a recurring artifact: a spiral and a vertical line. It was as if an invisible hand was restarting a ballpoint pen, and then, once finished, placing a large exclamation mark beside it. This glitch entangled people's hair, manifested in the folds of clothing, whimsically spiraled the horns of beasts, and ominously dominated an urban landscape like an approaching tornado, evoking a sense of imminent catastrophe. Lola had pinpointed a suspicious data set, but every time she tried to delete it, the program mysteriously restored itself.
After several months of tireless effort, Lola managed to fix the bug. Her joy knew no bounds. She had always dreamed of a mountain getaway and began to actively plan for it, browsing through various tour websites. She frequently asked me if our department had been requested any bonuses to be awarded to her. But then, suddenly, Lola stopped coming to work. Her phone went silent, and to our shock, we received a resignation letter from her.
I had hoped Lola would come by to bid farewell, but she didn't. Noticing my disappointment, colleagues suggested that perhaps Lola's friendliness had been a mere facade. They speculated that after securing a position at a competing firm, she decided to cut ties with her old job, avoiding any awkward conversations. Despite these whispers, I felt compelled to visit Lola, hoping for a casual chat over tea. Arriving at her address,I approached the single-story home and knocked, but received no response. A glance through the window revealed an eerily vacant space. The signs were clear: Lola had moved on, possibly having sold her house and taken off to the mountains in celebration of her new beginning.
The entire saga might have slipped into oblivion if not for an unexpected discovery. While perusing the paperwork of past employees, a distinctive signature caught my eye. There, on one of the forms, was a spiral and an exclamation mark. This unique mark belonged to one Oscar Omara. His signature began with a pronounced "O", succeeded by another "O" and a sinuous "m". The subsequent letters, diminishing in size and becoming barely distinguishable. Above this unique spiral, there was a line with a dot at the end. When rotated, this signature bore an uncanny resemblance to a tornado followed by an exclamation point. Digging deeper, I discovered that Oscar Omara was a programmer who had left the company well before my tenure. That was the extent of what I could uncover.
That evening, I turned to the internet hoping to find out more about him. It struck me as peculiar that Oscar, who was so engaged with social media, would suddenly desert his accounts after leaving his job. The latest entries on his profile were dated messages from friends: "Hey, where have you vanished?", "Got too big for your britches and forgot about your old friends?", "Oscar, respond! We're worried!", "I didn't expect such betrayal".
I can't help but chastise myself for allowing bitterness to cloud my judgment when Lola vanished, allowing her to slip from my memory. However, revisiting her long-abandoned social media account, I stumbled upon a chilling revelation. In one of her recent photos, Lola was at a picnic, sandwich in one hand, the other raised in a telling gesture—her thumb pressed tightly against her palm, the remaining four fingers splayed outward. In another snapshot, that same hand was now balled into a fist. This wasn't just any casual gesture; it was the 'Violence at Home Signal for Help,' a globally recognized plea for assistance. Clearly, Lola was already sensing imminent danger and was silently crying out for help. It's uncertain where Lola is now, or what condition she's in. Perhaps she has taken Oscar's place, and her motionless body, entwined with hundreds of tiny wires, lies in some laboratory, resembling a butterfly forever trapped within amber. However, one thing is clear: as long as the neural network makes the mistake of displaying numerous fingers, Lola is still alive and continues to fight. Once that bug is corrected — Lola will have lost this battle.
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