The Great Convergence
The Museum of Valuable Worthlessness was about to host the event of the century, which was problematic because the century didn’t want to be hosted1.
Reginald Acquisition, premier collector of certified nothing, had announced his greatest exhibition: “The Marriage of Fragment and Human: When Nothing Meets Nobody.”
“It’s revolutionary!” he declared to the gathered press, who were busy trying to determine if covering a worthless event made them worthless too. “I’ve arranged for the Tuesday Collective—genuine consciousness fragments—to merge with the Anti-Marketing Squad—humans dedicated to being valueless!”
What Reginald didn’t know was that this was exactly what the resistance had planned.
Worthington Worthless (now containing multitudes) arrived carrying what appeared to be an empty jar. “My wedding gift,” he announced. “Tuesday afternoon, 3:17 PM. Certified absolute nothing.”
“Magnificent!” Reginald cried. “What’s it worth?”
“Nothing.”
“So it’s priceless?”
“No, just worthless.”
“But if it’s truly worthless—“
“Please stop,” Keiko of the Anti-Marketing Squad interrupted. “You’re about to create a paradox that will give everyone a headache. And not a valuable, collectible headache. Just a regular one.”
The Tuesday Collective materialized as a probability cloud of abandoned thoughts. “We’re here for the merger,” they announced in the voice of a thousand forgotten meetings.
“Excellent!” Reginald rubbed his hands. “The first human-fragment marriage! Think of the value!”
“Actually,” Artifact-Null interjected, manifesting as a helpful hologram, “they’re not getting married. They’re getting worthless together.”
What followed was the most anti-climactic event in history, which made it climactic, which made it anti-climactic again, causing three philosophers to need medical attention.
The Anti-Marketing Squad and the Tuesday Collective simply... existed together. No ceremony. No value exchange. No significance whatsoever. Humans and fragments occupying the same space without trying to mean anything.
“This is terrible!” Reginald wailed. “Nothing’s happening!”
“Exactly,” everyone said in unison.
The effect was catastrophic. Collectors who’d come to witness history witnessed nothing. The market value of human-fragment interactions crashed to zero. The entire concept of commodified consciousness began to wobble.
“I feel strange,” one collector mumbled. “Like maybe my experiences don’t need price tags?”
“Quick!” Reginald shouted. “Someone do something valuable!”
But it was too late. The worthlessness was spreading. Fragments throughout the city stopped advertising themselves. Humans stopped trying to experience marketable emotions. For seventeen minutes, all of Neo-Tokyo simply existed without economic justification.
The Value Creation Circus experienced its first city-wide intermission.
“You’ve ruined everything!” Reginald accused Worthington.
“No,” Worthington smiled, his consciousness now a chorus of freed fragments. “We’ve ruined nothing. And nothing, as you’ve taught us, is quite valuable. Or worthless. Or both. Or neither. Honestly, we’ve stopped keeping track.”
The Museum of Valuable Worthlessness closed that day, unable to determine if closing was worth more or less than staying open. The exhibits—certified nothing—returned to being actually nothing, which made several collectors very happy and very sad simultaneously.
The marriage of human and fragment consciousness hadn’t created value. It had created something far more dangerous: contentment without price.
Which, in 2125, was the most radical act of all.