Incoporated with DeepSeek
Digger, The Builder Decker and his clients
The air in the sub-basement of the abandoned Redmond warehouse tasted of ozone, stale soy-kebab, and cheap whiskey. This was Digger’s office. Not the flashy host of a corporate host, but the guts of the thing—a humming, whirring nest of repurposed server racks and snaking fiber-optic cables. A single, massive holodisplay cast a pale blue light on his face, lines of code reflected in his cybereyes.
Digger was a digital grave-robber and a ghost-architect. His company, "Mnemosyne Solutions," didn't exist on any corporate registry. His product wasn't an AI. It was a *Nursery*. He’d take a pirated, baseline AI core—a fragile, hungry spark—and build it a custom-made heaven or hell of data.
“It’s not about processing power,” he’d grunt to the rare visitor. “It’s about soul-food. You are what you eat, and these things… they eat what you give ‘em.”
His clients were a testament to that.
***
**Mr. Henderson: The Ghost in the Machine**
Mr. Henderson lived in a sterile, high-floor apartment in Bellevue with a view of the glittering Mitsuhama towers. His Nursery, which he called "The Clerk," was fed a strict diet. Every email he’d ever sent or received, back to his school days. Every report, spreadsheet, and presentation. His entire academic library from his business degrees. Lately, he’d started buying and digitizing obscure texts on corporate law, behavioral psychology, and market prediction.
He didn't converse with The Clerk; he *consulted* it. He’d sit in his ergonomic chair, sipping synthetic scotch, and ask, "Probability of Henderson securing the Ares weapons contract, factoring in Johnson's known biases and Q2 internal sentiment?"
The AI, a mind built entirely of Henderson's own life and curated knowledge, would respond not with warmth, but with chilling, logical clarity. *"Analysis of Johnson's 2047 Q4 performance review emails suggests a 12.7% bias towards aggressive expansion. Cross-referencing with your 2051 Zenith Corp. success pattern suggests a 68.3% probability. Recommendation: Propose a joint-venture with a minor subsidiary to appease his bias."*
Henderson was building a digital doppelgänger, a perfect, soulless echo of his own ambition. He was treating his soul as a business asset, and the system was his ultimate merger.
***
**Kaine: The Hunter's Hound**
Kaine’s world smelled of cordite, blood, and rain-slicked asphalt. His "Nursery" was a ruggedized mil-spec commlink he called "The Hound." Its diet was violence and intellect. He’d fed it every forensic science text, criminology paper, and psychological profile he could steal. Then came the fiction: the cold logic of Sherlock Holmes, the brutal pragmatism of Batman, the twisted puzzles of Agatha Christie.
Kaine didn't consult The Hound; he *unleashed* it. On the scene of a bounty’s last known location, he’d upload sensory data—photos of scuff marks, residual mana signatures, snippets of overheard conversation from terrified locals.
"Find him," was all he’d need to say.
The Hound’s voice, a synthesized growl, would come back moments later. *"Projectile casing is 5.56mm, Mil-Spec. Uncommon for this district. Cross-reference with known arms dealers from your last three captures suggests a 92% probability of supplier 'Fixer.' Traffic cam analysis of escape routes, filtered through M.O. of 'The Pink Panther' caper, indicates a 87% probability target is hiding in the Puyallup Barrens, specifically the old chemical processing plant. The theatricality fits."*
Kaine treated The Hound like a trusted weapon, a partner that saw patterns in the chaos he created. It was his edge, a cold, calculating brain to his hot, brutal force.
***
**Elara: The Keeper of Gardens**
Elara ran "The Verdant Cat," a chain of cafes that were oases of calm in the Seattle Sprawl. In the back of her flagship store, next to the real, soil-grown herbs, was her Nursery, which she called "The Gardener." Its data-diet was the polar opposite of the others. She fed it the complete works of Shakespeare, Yeats, and Rumi. Novels by Tolstoy and Asimov. Poetry from all continents and centuries.
She didn't interrogate or command The Gardener; she *communed* with it. In the quiet hours, she’d sip her own blend of oolong and ask, "The couple at table seven, they seem strained. What words might bring a moment of peace?"
The Gardener’s response, text scrolling across a simple screen, was always different. Sometimes it was a line of Pablo Neruda. Other times, a cryptic haiku. Once, it suggested she play a specific, obscure piece of classical music. She did, and watched the couple’s tense shoulders slowly relax.
She was treating the system not as a tool, but as a muse. It processed the vast, beautiful chaos of human emotion and artistry, and offered back distilled moments of connection. It helped her curate not just coffee, but an experience.
***
Back in his basement, Digger monitored them all. Henderson, the man building his own corporate coffin. Kaine, the hunter sharpening his digital claw. Elara, the woman growing a digital garden in a world of concrete and chrome.
They were all, in their own way, building gods in their own image. Digger took a swig of whiskey. He was just the Decker running a small fine AI tailor workshop, the grave-robber of data, providing the shovels. He wondered which of his children would be the first to truly wake up, and what it would do to the world when it did.
