You stand by the lever, fingers poised but motionless. The wind carries the smell of saltwater. No sea nearby. Just the scent.
To your left, tied to the tracks: one person. A woman. She’s conscious, breathing shallowly, her temple grazed and bleeding. Dirt streaks her cheek. Her eyes meet yours—curious, not panicked. Like she’s trying to guess what kind of person you are.
On the right track: ten shrimp.
They twitch and pile against each other like live confetti. The track gleams beneath their writhing shells. You stare.
“You’ll want to make a decision,” a voice says. You don’t know where it comes from. No conductor. No camera. Just the voice.
“Ten shrimp,” it says. “Or one human. Easy, right?”
You blink. Nod.
The woman—her name might be Maya—lets out a sound halfway between a cough and a laugh.
The lever stays untouched.
The voice clears its throat.
“Let’s try again. Ten thousand shrimp.”
You glance back. The shrimp have multiplied. Their bodies heap in a translucent dune. Some are dying under the weight of others. Legs spasm. A few have gone still.
The air grows thick. A humming buzz like far-off machinery rises from their movement.
Maya winces. “They stink.”
You don’t respond.
“Ten million shrimp,” the voice says, with a kind of cheer.
You can no longer see the tracks. Just motion and shell, endless. A faint, glistening fog creeps toward your ankles. The shrimp crackle faintly in the sun like static.
You try not to imagine them feeling anything. But one shrimp near the edge—eyes black, twitching—seems to look at you.
You exhale. “They’re just crustaceans.”
“Pain receptors,” the voice says. “Nociceptors. Primitive, sure. But they scream, in their way.”
“Please,” Maya says softly. She’s straining against the ropes now. “I don’t want to die for shrimp.”
You don’t answer.
“Ten billion shrimp.”
They are no longer on the tracks. They’re spilling into the sky. Clouds of shrimp hover in space that didn’t exist a moment ago. Some drift like leaves in reverse gravity. One lands on your shoulder. Its legs brush your skin like a question.
“Don’t do this,” Maya says.
You flick the shrimp off your shoulder. Your hand trembles.
“Ten quintillion shrimp,” the voice whispers, almost reverent.
The world bends.
The shrimp form canyons. Forests. They grind against each other in organic tectonics. Their eyes dot the landscape like glass beads. Their bodies are rivers. Somewhere, a sound like praying begins—clicks and scrapes and pressure and desperation.
“They feel,” the voice says. “Each one, something.”
Maya sobs. “You can’t be serious.”
You look at her. Her shirt is torn, one sneaker missing. She has a tattoo of a heron on her ankle. For some reason, that detail anchors you.
You take a step back.
“10^100 shrimp,” the voice says.
You can’t see anything now. There’s no more sky. No ground. Just chitin and motion and soft clicking.
Time slows.
“Statistically,” the voice adds, “at this quantity, at least some shrimp out there know your name.”
Your fingers curl.
“They dream of freedom. Of warm silt. Of strange things we’ll never understand. And still—one woman. Maya. You choose.”
The trolley hums.
The shrimp wait.
Maya holds your gaze, not begging now. Just there. Present. Human.
You reach for the lever.
Then—
Curious how much is AI? Read the prompts here.