We sit in the facility's conference room - a scenario that is far too meta for me to wrap my head around fully. The LeafLink version of the entire building is a shocking replica of the real thing; passing through its hallways instilled a horrible sense of deja vu, stronger than I've ever felt before. Still, there are differences. More detailed than the street 'outside,' the place still lacks texture and shadow that would otherwise be unnoticeable. But by being absent, you couldn't ignore it. This conference room in LeafLink also contains the same doorway that led to the forest and the generator within. We all avoid looking in its direction.

"LeafLink is a success," Sara is busy trying to make her point, trying to force herself into our dazed, battered minds. "But we've been at a roadblock for months now with certain... issues. Do you know why the 'diamond' I made was so inaccurate?"

Her question is met by silence.

"Because you've never seen a diamond before?" I venture. Bridget coughs, trying to smother her amusement.

But Sara, to my surprise, inclines her head towards me. "That's a closer answer than you realize, Mr. Vitalli. I'm limited by my understanding of everything that composes what we think a diamond should look like. I can bring to mind its color, the shape, even how it feels - but the basic human senses can only take me so far. I can't calculate how light bounces off a diamond, how it should correctly refract throughout its translucent surface. I don't know the specifics of its molecular composition, nor do I understand any of the other specific laws of physics necessary for it to look and feel realistic. LeafLink allows us to create anything, but only to the extent of our knowledge, and ability to visualize."

"Another problem is the lack of permanence," she adds. "Any kind of infrastructure we create doesn't last long before dissipating again. The City is the extent of anything permanent we've created so far after months of work."

I let this information soak in, and I'm almost... disappointed by what Sara has told us. This is not the future of communication, and data-sharing, and content-creation that the world has promised us. LeafLink is an impressive trick, absolutely, but the entire system seems significantly flawed. It is not the intelligent platform I was expecting; instead, this place feels like a crudely-made sandbox.

There are those among the group who seem to feel differently. The long-haired man leans forward, interest written all over his expression. "What did you figure out?" He asks.

"Just like you and I, there's a version of the generator in here, Mr. Alves. We found that direct contact with it is the only way to make anything permanent."

"That's very limiting," he answers.

She shrugs. "The bigger problem is that the person is still doing too much of the work, even with the generator. It's obvious we don't have the mental capacity to calculate the millions of threads in a coat, for example, or the way light reflects off a skyscraper."

It made sense. I knew from my film classes back in college that animated films once suffered through an era where computer technology really struggled to create realistic-looking effects. It was just too hard to replicate the details of real fur, or the particular flow of water. LeafLink's problems felt somewhat similar.

"We have to 'train' the generator to make use of all of its incredible processing power - to utilize that capability into creation. Ideally, LeafLink would become a space for anyone's needs. Let's say you're a corporation planning a conference. You should be able to approach the generator, ask for - let's say - a three-story conference hall, big enough for your entire international employee base. Or, maybe you're a low-income earner who can't afford a vacation. You could request an Art-Deco beach house on the shores of a tropical beach - and have it placed exactly where we want it. LeafLink is capable of generating all the necessary textures and physics - there's no reason this place shouldn't be indistinguishable from the real thing."

"And then finally, we hope to have it handle... abstract tasks. You could ask for a self-organizing calendar, or a keyboard that writes emails for you."

I bristle at the idea, but it's Bridget who speaks up, her voice hard.

"Oh, and then what? A canvas that paints itself? A 'magic' printing machine that spits out movie scripts? Have you even thought this through?"

Sara stares her down. "Like your associate said, only the generator has the potential to make anything so detailed - or permanent. And don't forget, we're only speaking in hypotheticals here."

"You're asking us to build something that could replace artists!"

"LeafLink could become the ultimate playground for artists. No need for studios to fund film equipment, or art gallery sponsors. You could have every tool you could dream of here, with all the space and amenities you'd ever need. I'd also like to mention, Ms. Johnson," she added breezily, "that you've already signed the contract."

Bridget doesn't have an answer for that.

"Okay," Sara has already moved on. She brings her hands together in a small clap; it's an odd mannerism. "I'm going to do a quick one-on-one with each of you, explain what you'll be doing."

Without waiting for an answer she walks right up to Bridget and holds out an offered hand. The other woman eyes it as though one would look at a particularly offensive turd on the sidewalk, but slowly returns the gesture. The moment they make contact, they are gone in a blink, like they were never there.

...

I am the second to leave. It doesn't take very long for Sara to return (alone), and offer that same outstretched hand. I take it, tamping down my apprehension, and the world changes around us.

We are in a forest, and for a split-second I believe that Sara's somehow pulled us into the real world again. There is true detail in the sprawling, ancient-looking trees all around us. Sunlight arcs, dappled shadows shift in the breeze. I step closer to the nearest trunk, and find myself surprised by the rough, brittle texture of the bark. Then my hands brush across something cold and hard, and I spot the twisting metal fibers nestled within the wood. It dawns on me that each of these trees look almost identical to the real-world generator. In LeafLink, it seems, the tree has become the forest.

"It's impressive, isn't it?" Sara's voice is wistful, "all of LeafLink should look like this."

"Where will the others be?" I ask.

"Scattered throughout the grove. The place is big enough for each of you to be able to work independently." She turns towards one of the generator-trees, brushes a hand against it. "The generator is like a computer in a lot of ways. We've uploaded... yottabytes of data into it - information from all aspects of human learning, creativity, scientific discovery. Technically, it has the knowledge - it just doesn't know how to express it yet. That's where you come in."

"Okay," I say. It's a lot of wording, but I get the gist - the generator's basically a living Wikipedia, but... inaccessible?

"Your job will be to talk to Leaflink."

"Talk?"

"Yes," she smiles at me. A flick of her wrist, and a piece of paper appears between her fingers. She hands it to me. It's crude and featureless, in the style I'm starting to consider as the "LeafLink 1.0" version.

"I made this using the generator, so it won't disappear. You'll be able to store it away or pull it out whenever you need. I want you to describe the things on that list, over and over again, with as much detail as you can. Every time LeafLink successfully creates that said object, and you truly discern it from reality, you can mark it off as complete."

"Seems simple enough," I say. Then add, because I can't help myself, "a little too simple, actually."

Sara chuckles, tilting her head. "Well, we've tried, but it's become clear that there's a need for someone with a... knack for creativity to engage the generator. It's not wholly scientific, in my opinion." Her voice gets soft, "creativity, art, passion... I believe these are what will make LeafLink more descriptive, more aware." Then her gaze sharpens in a way I can't quite explain. "You have all the qualifications we could need, so no worries, right?"

I make myself nod. "Right. I guess I'll get started, then." My tone is brusque, but she doesn't seem to care.

"If you need anything, just come find me." Then she's gone like a fleeting dream.

Turning my full attention to the task at hand, I see that Sara's list is composed of some pretty basic objects. As my eye trails down the 'paper,' I can see they grow to some measure in complexity.

Further experimentation reveals that I can enlarge, shrink, or move around each listed item - although I cannot erase them. With my fingers alone, I'm able to add my own markings to the page, in whatever color I can think of.

I focus on the first bulleted item: an apple. There's something humorous about the simplicity of it, and I can't help the smirk that comes creeping over my face.

But it doesn't last long as I take stock of the task at hand. Sara told me to take my best crack at it, but her directions were shockingly vague. Of course, this isn't reality, so there weren't any real consequences, right? Maybe she's trying to give me as much room to experiment as possible.

I think back to Sara's demonstration, the look of concentration on her face when she fashioned the 'diamond' out of nothing. I could try making an 'apple' on my own, like she did, but I decide against the idea. It made the most sense to start working with the generator immediately, since that's what I'm expected to... teach. Train? Any verbiage that comes to mind feels insufficient towards describing what I'm about to do. Still, it doesn't take long for me to formulate a plan.

Let's try some contact. I step towards the same tree I'd placed my hand upon earlier, relishing once again in the shockingly real texture and weight beneath my fingers.

I close my 'eyes' and focus. Apples are red, right? And round. And have a little nub of a stem sprouting right off the top. But wait, there's also green apples. They're sour-

There's a thump of something hitting the ground beside me. I whirl towards the noise, surprised by its arrival, still struggling with my own thoughts. There's a growing sense of embarrassment as I open my eyes, crouch down, and pick up the splotchy green-and-red sphere that's supposed to be an apple. It feels like... smoothness, like glass. I hesitate, before lifting it to my mouth and taking a nibble - to which I immediately spit out, hacking. Even my real body reacts to the too-sour, unpleasant taste.

"Holy shit," I toss the nasty thing, letting it fall back onto the grass. A surreptitious look around me lets me know there is no one around to see my failure.

Still, it was a start. And now I know that holding a single image of anything in your mind is an impossible task; not to mention, accurately visualizing every single aspect of it is beyond even that. I'm developing a sneaking suspicion that anything permanent coaxed out of the generator so far has been done using purely mental concentration. That's why they all feel so incomplete.

But I'm here because I'm a writer, right? So maybe I need to take a different approach.

It is easy to fashion my own sheet of paper. Unlike Sara's, I don't use the generator to make it permanent - it won't need to stick around for long. Using my finger and concentrating, like I'd done with the list, I begin to write.

Describing an apple using real, tangible words is a much easier task, and I find myself warming to the unique challenge. I focus on the senses, on appearance. According to Sara, the generator will pull from its own stores of data to handle the physics and composition of it all.

Red, juicy, sweet, hard... I rattle off descriptors, until I'm confident that I've captured the essence of a classic, red apple. Then I press the 'paper' against the tree and focus on my intentions.

Another dull thump, another object settles to the ground besides the first.

It's... better than the last one. It's a single, solid color, but the red is too bright, the stem is too long, the flavor is overwhelmingly sweet, like candy.

It's guessing, I realize, idly tossing the 'apple' in my hand. I want the apple to be red, but I don't say what shade, I want it to be sweet, but I don't say how much. A list of adjectives isn't enough. Clearly, somewhere in all that data there must be an image of an apple - it's too accurate otherwise, but that's not the problem. It's more like it can't figure out what I want, despite trying its best. All the information in the world is useless if me and LeafLink can't communicate clearly.

The generator-tree has absorbed my first attempt, dissolving into the bark, so I fabricate another. This time, however, I take my time.

Round, yet imperfect, slightly larger than my first. A small, dark-brown stem where the apple's surface puckers, no longer than half an inch in length. The skin of an apple has a dull shine to it, like unpolished silver...

On, and on, I write, losing myself in the task. I run out of room on my first page, so I make another. And another. It's almost meditative, spending long minutes of focus on a single object, working to capture its essence to the best that I can.

Eventually I make myself stop. Not because I've run out words, but I'm worried the paper I'm writing on will dissipate before I can test it out. This time, I'm well and truly excited as I offer up my work to the generator-tree.

Instead of landing on the grass, the apple appeared in my outstretched hand, exactly as I'd written. I bring it close, twisting it from side to side, enraptured. There's the shine, the hard, yet slightly bouncy texture. The stem, the color, the flavor... besides this forest, and the LeafLink users themselves, it's the most realistic thing I've seen so far. I don't try to force the grin back down as it splits across my face. I take another bite of the best goddamn apple I've ever tasted.