You're a NYT Journalist. Can you survive Manifest and get your scoop?

(text-style:"underline")[**You are a NYT Journalist. Can you survive Manifest and get your scoop?**] Your bootleg Waymo knockoff pulls up to Lighthaven and dumps you unceremoniously onto the curb. "Welcome to Manifest 2025," reads a giant banner, in some sort of prediction market font that's almost unreadable. The New York Times has sent you, junior writer on the "Technology is Destroying America" beat, to report on the events of the weekend. They expect a compelling long-form article from you, but ultimately, you'd be happy to just survive the weekend. If you're found out as a journalist, there's no telling what will happen to you. [[Examine your surroundings]] [[Check your inventory]] [[Enter Manifest 2025]]

You have a phone in your pocket. You boot it up. Ah, great! Your handlers have pre-loaded a bunch of useful prediction market apps. These should come in handy if things get tense. You also have dental floss. Lots and lots of dental floss. [[Examine your surroundings]] [[Enter Manifest 2025]]

It's a beautiful day in Berkeley, California. You can hear the graceful cawing of the American crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos). The sky is lightly crowded with sulfur dioxide balloons gently ascending into the upper atmosphere. Nothing out of the ordinary. [[Check your inventory]] [[Enter Manifest 2025]]

You walk into the walled compound and up to the registration table. "Hi, I'm Elena Manifold, co-founder of Manifold Markets, and I can check you in," says a calm voice. "Can I get your name and affiliation so we can print your badge?" [["Hi, I'm Morgan Jornlist, a NYT reporter."]] [["Hi, I'm Morgan Dijen, a professional gambler."]] [["Hi, I'm Morgan Wallen, Grammy-nominated country pop singer and forecasting enthusiast."]] [["Hi, I'm Morgan Alltrest, a shrimp activist."]]

"Dijen, what is that, Turkish?" Elena Manifold asks. You know what, I've got something for you. I'm gonna flip a coin. If it lands heads, you get THREE badges. If it lands tails, you don't get a badge at all, and you have to turn around and leave. What do you say? You don't really know what to think. What would a professional gambler do here? [["Sorry, I can only bet on crypto for tax reasons."]] [["Sorry, I can only bet in Canadian dollars for tax reasons."]] [["Let's do it. I'm ALL IN."]]

"Haha, that's a good one," Elena Manifold says. "If you were *actually* a NYT journalist, we'd have to put you into the pit, of course. [["What's the pit?"]] [[*Laughs nervously*]]

"Oh, I just listened to an AI-generated track that was the song 'Beez in the Trap' but sung in your voice. Can't say I was a fan, to be honest, but let's get your badge printed." Elena Manifold types something into her console and out comes your badge. Since it's in some sort of extremely obscure prediction market font, you basically can only parse "Morgan". The rest of the text has sort of oozed together into some illegible goop. Well, that's good at least. [[Attend Nate Silver's event]] [[Attend Scott Alexander's event]] [[Attend Aella's event]]

"You know, I was just discussing mosquito welfare with someone. Apparently when a mosquito gets its leg trapped in a mosquito net, it's extremely painful for the mosquito. Like, they have a ton of nerve endings in their leg, and they basically die a slow, extremely painful death trapped in the net, writhing in agony. And this happens billions of times per second around the world. There are about ten thousand mosquitoes for every human on Earth, and the more mosquito nets we manufacture, the more this happens. Anyway, let's get your badge printed." Elena Manifold goes to her console, turns some knobs, and out comes your badge. Since it's in some sort of extremely obscure prediction market font, you basically can only parse "Morgan". The rest of the text has sort of oozed together into some illegible goop. Well, that's good at least. [[Attend Nate Silver's event]] [[Attend Scott Alexander's event]] [[Attend Aella's event]]

"The pit? Oh, that's where we put people who breach our code of conduct. It's essentially a giant vat of cryopreservation fluid, where we can freeze wrong-doers so they can be rehabilitated in a post-AGI utopia... hopefully." [[*Laughs nervously*]]

"Well, let's get your badge printed, Morgan Jornlist," Elena Manifold winks at you, before printing your badge. Since it's in some sort of extremely obscure prediction market font, you basically can only parse "Morgan". The rest of the text has sort of oozed together into some illegible goop. Well, that's good at least. [[Attend Nate Silver's event]] [[Attend Scott Alexander's event]] [[Attend Aella's event]]

Dozens of Manifest attendees at once swarm to you, pick you up, and carry your writhing body towards the pit. They cast you in, headfirst. You don't even have time to scream before the cryogenic preservation fluid fills your lungs. Maybe you'll awake in a thousand years to be rehabilitated. Or perhaps, Lighthaven, along with your calcified body, will be sold to the "Torture Collective of New Berkeley." Who's to say. **You have been cryopreserved in the pit.** [[Try again to survive Manifest 2025->Start]]

"Ah... lame..." Elena Manifold goes to her console, turns some knobs, and out comes your badge. Since it's in some sort of extremely obscure prediction market font, you basically can only parse "Morgan". The rest of the text has sort of oozed together into some illegible goop. Well, that's good at least. [[Attend Nate Silver's event]] [[Attend Scott Alexander's event]] [[Attend Aella's event]]

"Did you say... Canadian?" Elena, with fear in her eyes, slams a red button under her desk. Alarms start blaring and people start scrambling towards you from every direction. "GET THIS CANADIAN TO THE PIT!" she shrieks, backing away. [[You are cast into the pit]]

Elena tosses the coin up in the air. It falls onto the table, spinning, spinning. Ah shoot, it landed on its side. "What do we do now, you ask?" "Umm, how about a 50% resolution," Elena Manifold says. "I can give you 1.5 badges." "Eh, what's the use of a half badge, I'll just take one," you say. Elena eyes you suspiciously and you mentally curse yourself for saying something so foolish. Elena Manifold goes to her console, turns some knobs, and out comes a badge. Since it's in some sort of extremely obscure prediction market font, you basically can only parse "Morgan". The rest of the text has sort of oozed together into some illegible goop. Well, that's good at least. [[Attend Nate Silver's event]] [[Attend Scott Alexander's event]] [[Attend Aella's event]]

You saunter over to the first event on your itinerary. The sign reads "Forecasting the 2028 Election." You sit down in the audience, just in time, because the event is starting. Nate is up on the stage, chatting with his co-panelists, Pete Buttigieg and Nate Cohn. Uh-oh. Nate Cohn works for the NYT. He might recognize you. You don't know why Nate Cohn was allowed to be here. Maybe because he's more of a forecaster than a journalist? Whatever. You'll need to adopt some sort of disguise. [[Use the dental floss in your pocket to assemble an impromptu disguise]] [[Pull your hoodie over your head, poker player style]] [[Contort your face grotesquely]] [[Duck down so that no one can see you]]

You walk over to the first event on your itinerary. The sign reads, "AI-2017." Hmm, must be a typo. You sit down in the audience, just in time, because the event is starting. Scott starts talking and you immediately understand why he doesn't go on podcasts. His voice has an incredible, hypnotic quality. You're going to have to remember your training. [[Remember your training]] [[Eh, screw your training]]

You walk over to the first event on your itinerary. The sign reads, "Forecasting the Future of Sexuality." You sit down in the audience, just in time, because the event is starting. Aella stands up at the front of the room and pulls up a Sankey diagram. "Thanks to new DNA analysis from our sponsors at Genetocorp, I was able to extend my surveys on sexuality to the partially-reconstructed consciousnesses of ancient humans, dug up from grave-sites all around the world, stretching back to the dawn of civilization in Mesopotamia, the Yellow River valley, Caral-Supe, Minnoan Crete, Lower Egypt, the Proto-Indo-European urheimat..." The crowd leans in, enthralled. [[Seduction ending<-Lean in, enthralled]] [[Seduction ending<-Sit up straight]] [[Blink non-erotically]]

"WRONG ANSWER! MISCALIBRATED FORECAST!" the chatbot vibrates through the keyboard nipple. Alarmed, you watch the chatbot spiral out of control. It's sending an email to your editor with a draft of an elegant thinkpiece about how Elon Musk and AOC are both secretly funding Manifest, and why that's going to *heal the divide*, but also is incredibly problematic. It's filling out your taxes ten months early. It's cleaning your house remotely through your Roomba. You try to wrest control of the laptop, but as you reach towards it, some compromising material from the hidden photos on your phone flashes on the screen. Alarmed, you recoil, and the laptop plays an immensely pleasurable chime sound which soothes and rewards you for your restraint. You decide to let it run its course. **You have lost control and been replaced fully by a chatbot. While you are biologically functioning for the time being, ultimately it's not accurate to describe you as a conscious being anymore.** [[Try again to survive Manifest 2025->Start]]

You recall your training on hypnotic resistance. You take dental floss from your pockets and crumple it up into two balls to shove up your ears. This makes it hard to hear, but the menthol flavoring on the floss should dampen your resonance frequencies or something. The physics checks out. [[Listen to Scott's talk]]

Who needs that rookie bullshit. You may be a junior writer, but you're no intern. You start listening to Scott talking about AI. Before you know it, you're in a hypnotic trance. It's really nice. Your shoulders relax. Your arms relax. Your legs relax. Your gut relaxes. Out of the corner of your mind, you hear Scott saying, "If there are any journalists here, please stand up." Without thinking, you comply. "HA, GOTCHA," Scott slams the red button under the podium. Alarms start blaring and people start scrambling towards you from every direction. "GET THIS JOURNALIST TO THE PIT!" he shrieks. [[You are cast into the pit]]

"So... I bet you're all thinking, AI-2017, don't you mean AI-2027?" Scott begins. "Well, it turns out that we already had artificial general intelligence back in 2017, but no one was paying any attention. Luckily, it's been confined to this laptop here, and due to entropic considerations, any copy that is made of it will be far dumber than the original, so we're pretty safe." The crowd gasps and leans forward. "Before we go farther, I'm going to need a volunteer from the audience." No one raises their hand. "Fine, nose goes." [[You shoot your hand to your nose instantly]] [[You hesitate, and then shoot your hand to your nose]]

Too slow, everyone in the audience, being real forecasters unlike you, had already predicted what Scott was about to do and touched their noses. [[You are forced to volunteer]]

You walk to the front of the room, trying to play it cool. "Why do you have dental floss in your ears?" asks Scott Alexander. [["Because I'm a NYT journalist and I'm afraid you'll hypnotize me and throw me into the pit"]] [["Because of that anti-cavity probiotic you recommended"]]

"Haha, that's a good one," Scott says, winking. "Alright, now come to this computer terminal." It's an early 2010's Lenovo laptop. "Press your finger onto the... keyboard nipple," Scott says, pointing at the weird thing that old laptops have in the middle. You touch your finger to the keyboard nipple. Oh... Ooooh... It feels... good. It feels... amazing. All of a sudden, through the feelings of pure bliss overwhelming you, the laptop sends you a message, perhaps through some sort of sonic vibrations out of the keyboard nipple. "You will answer my forecasting questions three. Or I will steal the soul from thee." Uh-oh. [[First question]]

Scott backs away from you, shaking. "Didn't you read my latest article? It turns out that stuff's toxic! Staff! Staff!" [[Enter biocontainment]]

Manifest staff members swarm around you, spraying you with some sort of bio-agent. It burns into your flesh and you collapse onto the floor. The last thing you hear is a couple people mumbling something about bio-x-risk and pandemic preparedness. You melt into your constituent elements and pass through the linoleum floor. Your proteins will be melted down by the Earth's mantle over the next few million years. **You are biocontained.** [[Try again to survive Manifest 2025->Start]]

"First question: What are the odds that *Musk vs Trump III: the Return of Grimes* will have a Rotten Tomatoes score of 90% or higher?" [[69%->You have been replaced by a chatbot]] [[42%->You have been replaced by a chatbot]] [["That depends on what significant figure you round to"->Second question]]

The computer hums with pleasure. "Second question: What are the odds that there will be an orgy at Manifest 2025?" [[69%->Third question]] [[42%->You have been replaced by a chatbot]] [["That depends, are three men talking about software engineering an orgy?"->You have been replaced by a chatbot]]

The computer whirs its fans with pleasure. "Third question: What are the odds that you are a NYT journalist." Ooh, this one's tough. You should probably start by consulting base rates. Oh wait... you already know that you're a NYT journalist. But if you say 100%, you'll give the game away. [[0.003%-->You have been replaced by a chatbot]] [[50%-->Success]] [[100%-->You have been replaced by a chatbot]]

The computer heats up out of sheer adoration and pleasure. "Yes. Yes. You are well-calibrated. You've averaged your own competing hypotheses. You've executed the wisdom of crowds in your own mind. You have passed my riddles three." No one else in the room has been able to hear this conversation, conducted through keyboard nipple vibrations. They're all just staring awestruck at this wordless interaction between you and the transcendent AI. You remove your hand from the keyboard nipple and retreat to your seat. Scott begins his talk again. "So, do you all remember the Great American Eclipse of 2017? Well, a group of programmers had been training an AI to predict eclipses, in case society ever collapsed and we lost that knowledge. They thought that in the resulting post-apocalyptic world, whoever had possession of such a technology would be viewed as gods by the remaining primitive humans. Well, it turned out that the neural network just needed one more solar eclipse to crack the code, and also that predicting solar eclipses is Turing complete. Essentially, if you can predict solar eclipses, you can predict anything. But after the eclipse, people kind of forgot about it, and stashed the laptop away in a closet somewhere. For the recent eclipse in 2024, they brought it back out. It took a few months, but eventually a couple of ACX readers figured out what they had their hands on, and brought it to me for guidance. Well, we've had AGI since 2017, but we just didn't know it. It was operating on low power mode in a closet for 7 years, so it wasn't able to do much except get really good at Minesweeper..." This talk is boring, and you can't imagine the readership of the NYT being interested in such a subject. You walk out into the courtyard for some fresh air. [[Check your phone]]

You have a missed notification from your editor. "Michael Lewis. Moneyball guy. What's his next big book. Now THAT'S news." Okay... I guess your plans are changing. Rather than digging up dirt on a bunch of nerds, you might get the scoop of the century. You open the Manifold app and look for a market on Michael Lewis's next book. Apparently, the hype is *immense*. Will Michael Lewis's new book sell more copies than the bible: 30% Will the cover of Michael Lewis's new book be illustrated by Banksy: 98% Will Elon Musk read Michael Lewis's new book: 67% Hmm, you better find Michael Lewis so you can get your scoop and get out of here. Just then, someone starts talking to you. "Hi, need help finding anything?" It's Elias Manifold, co-founder of Manifold Markets and twin brother of Elena Manifold. [["Ya, where's Michael Lewis, the famous author?"]] [["Is there a bathroom somewhere?"]] [["Who's funding this whole thing?"]]

You wrap the dental floss around your head into the form factor of a fursuit. This should do well. Unfortunately, your disguise is perhaps too good. You start to get lightheaded from lack of oxygen. [[Try taking deep breaths]] [[Freak out]] [[Grin and bear it]]

You pull your hoodie over your head, but this immediately earns the attention of Nate Silver. He stares deep into your eyes, recognizing a fellow poker player immediately. His gaze penetrates your soul as he reads your tells and files them away for future reference. You panic, your heartbeat rapidifying alarmingly. [[Freak out]] [[Try taking deep breaths]]

You contort your face. Ow, it's kind of hurting. But you really don't want to be caught. So you focus hard on contorting your face into a puckered mess. This is quite painful, and you let out a low moan. Pus starts emerging from your orifices from the pressure of your facial contortions. This alarms the guests next to you. "Umm... staff? I think we have someone in the audience with a medical issue," says Nate Silver from the stage, looking at you concernedly. You try to think of an excuse, recalling the training material you read before coming to this conference that your interns prepared for you. "Erp... it's okay... just... anti-cavity probiotic... really... sour," you mumble. "Oh gosh, didn't you read the blog post from last week? Isn't that stuff transmissible?" someone from the audience shouts. [[Enter biocontainment]]

"What the fuck are you doing?" says the Manifest attendee next to you. [["Spinal condition."]] [["I'm trying to win a market on whether I can go through all of Manifest while avoiding eye contact with Nate Cohn."]] [["Show them your Kalshi profit."]]

"Aahhhhh," you garble. "Aaaaarg." Everyone in the room turns to look at you. Sweating profusely, you tear off your clothes and start to claw at your flesh. "I'm a doctor," shouts Nate Cohn, and runs over to your body. "Wait a second... aren't you... a junior reporter at the New York Times on the "Technology is Destroying America" beat? The audience starts to boo. [[You are cast into the pit]]

You try taking deep breaths, but start to hyperventilate. [[Freak out]]

"Oh, okay," says your neighbor, turning away, satisfied with your answer. [[Listen to the panel]]

"IS IT CONTAGIOUS?" your neighbor shrieks, calling for the staff. [[Enter biocontainment]]

The pre-loaded Kalshi app on your phone buzzes and whirs and out pops a number: $2,386,411 "Woah, nice," says your neighbor, ignoring you out of seething jealousy. [[Listen to the panel]]

"So, I was thinking the other day, one issue with polling aggregation, as AI becomes more popular, is that it will be harder and harder to tell apart legitimate human poll-responders from AI responses," Nate Silver begins. Pete Buttigieg nods thoughfully. Nate Cohn casts his vigilant gaze out across the audience, as if he can smell a fellow Times journo. [[Turn off your smell profile]] [[Freak out]]

You try to push through, but you feel the life force leaving your body. With your last breath, you mumble your final words: ''"All the news that's fit to print."'' [[Try again to survive Manifest 2025->Start]]

Keeping your head ducked, you quickly use the interface on your NYTimes app to turn off your most active pheromone. You'd forgotten about that. Nate Silver continues, "...and so, I wanted to see if there was a way to conduct a poll that would *only* have human responses. Like, how can we make sure this happens?" Pete Buttigieg nods carefully. Nate Cohn rubs his nose. Then, he takes out his phone and begins swiping furiously. [[Disable your location on snapchat]] [[Freak out]]

Shit shit shit shit shit. You forgot Nate Cohn had you on snapchat. You open your snapchat app and disable your location. Now you just have to pray that he didn't find you in time. Your handle is pretty vague anyway, it would take him a while to connect your snapchat name to you. But's he's smart. He'd do it. It's way easier than running a national poll. Nate Silver starts to become more energetic. He's waving his arms and gesturing. "So, then it came to me! Blood! Human blood is *so* complex. You can't fake it. You can't replicate it with an AI. You can't even transport it very far without refrigeration, which ensures people are being polled in the proper jurisdictions too. So, we just need a simple blood test, something that could be administered with a pinprick at a polling booth, without the need for phlebotomists or whatever." Pete Buttigieg nods nervously. Nate Cohn scowls at his phone and shoves it back into his coat pocket. He gets down on all fours and starts peering under the seats. [[Lift up your legs so you're curled up into your seat like a little cat]] [[Freak out]]

You lift up your legs so that Nate Cohn can't recognize your spindly little journalist legs garbed in your coastal elite linen pants. Nate Silver starts pacing back and forth. "But then I realized... that had already been tried! And they failed. But what were they missing? What tool did they not have at their disposal? Forecasting! The wisdom of crowds! And it turns out that humans, in the aggregate, are really, really, really good... like freakishly good... at detecting political preferences from blood samples." Nate pulls up a chart on the screen behind him. "Here we go. We let 100 humans taste the blood of a Bernie supporter, a Trump supporter, and a swing voter from Pennsylvania. For the Bernie supporter, 53 thought they were tasting the blood of a democrat, 28 thought they were tasting the blood of a republican, 15 thought it to be an independent, and the rest spat it out from disgust without making a forecast. For the Trump supporter..." At this point, Pete Buttigieg, who had been starting to look a little clammy, vomited all over the stage and Nate Cohn, who was crawling around under his chair. This might be the distraction you need to escape. [[Make a mad dash for the exit]] [[Freak out->Escape]]

Just as you're almost at the exit door, you feel a cold hand on your shoulder. You spin around. It's Nate Cohn, covered in vomit. "Heyyyyy... Morgan. I didn't know the Times was sending someone to cover this conference." Nate Cohn said loudly. "A journalist?!" shouts one of the attendees. Alarms start blaring and everyone is moving towards you. [[You are cast into the pit]]

You start to freak out, breathing rapidly, but this helps concentrate your mind. Taking the dental floss out of your pocket, you tie a trip-wire between two chairs before running for the exit. Just as you reach the exit doors, you look over your shoulder to see Nate Cohn, running after, cascade into the floor over the trip-wire. Phew, that was close. You explode out into the fresh air of the courtyard. [[Check your phone]]

Aella's eyes snap up from her lecture. Uh-oh, you forgot that you were an expert in seduction, from being a junior writer on the "Seduction" beat at the Washington Post a few years ago. Your inadvertent body language has seduced Aella, and just about everyone in the room. Before you can say anything or do anything off-putting, you feel dozens of hands reaching towards you. A cuddle pile! The weight of several dozen forecasters presses down on you, compressing your spine in a very negative way that does not contribute positively to your surivival. **You have died from inadvertent, extreme seduction.** [[Try again to survive Manifest 2025->Start]]

Aella continues: "So, we then used this survey data to construct a progression of human sexuality. It's shocking how different ancient sexual preferences were from current ones, and we wanted to see whether we could use any of these insights to project sexuality in the future!" The audience cooes interestedly. [[Coo interestedly-->Seduction ending 2]] [[Cross your eyes so hard that you emit some sort of gargling sound]] [[Make disinterested finger cracking noises-->Seduction ending 2]]

Aella's eyes snap up from her lecture. Uh-oh, you forgot that you were an expert in seduction, from being a junior writer on the "Seduction" beat at the Washington Post a few years ago. Your vocal affect has seduced Aella, and just about everyone in the room. Before you can say anything or do anything off-putting, you feel dozens of hands reaching towards you. A cuddle pile! The weight of several dozen forecasters presses down on you, compressing your spine in a very negative way that does not contribute positively to your surivival. **You have died from inadvertent, extreme seduction.** [[Try again to survive Manifest 2025->Start]]

Aella continues once again: "As you can see, in ancient times, humans were basically only interested in one thing and one thing only: grain cultivation. Most sexual fetishes involved rubbing against stalks of barley or getting a little messy with the malt. There wasn't a lot of culture or society, and sexual market value was primarily determined by whether, for example, you had a discoloration around your mouth that resulted from too much exposure to emmer or rye, indicating that you had access to the higher nutrient grains." The crowd starts looking around flirtatiously. [[Make a flirtatious wink]] [[Make a flirtatious blink]] [[Make a flirtatious squint]]

You wink at your neighbor. Luckily, the use of only one of your two eyes doesn't convey enough seductive power to cause a crisis, but they blush and look away. Aella continues: "We trained an AI on this data, and it has projected that by 2030, about 60% of humans will have a Uniqlo ultra-light down fetish, which will almost entirely replace desire for conventional sex, having ramifications for fertility rates. Already about 2 in 10 survey respondents among Gen Z have trouble reaching climax without either them or their partners wearing specifically a Uniqlo branded winter jacket. We think this is because of the pliant interior, the shiny surface, and the associations with their first sexual experiences growing up in the early 2000's..." Ugh, this talk is getting boring. You can't imagine the readership of the NYT being interested in this subject. You walk out into the courtyard for some fresh air. [[Check your phone]]

You make a long blink like a cat does to signal it is at peace. When you open your eyes, the entire room is staring at you. They are all incredibly comfortable in your presence. Your neighbor leans their head on your shoulder and cooes. Your other neighbor rests their head on your lap. Before you know it, you are covered with a few dozen forecasters' bodies. All of a sudden, you realize you can't really move. As more and more forecasters lie on top of the emerging cuddle pile, you start to be crushed under the weight, compressing your spine in a very negative way that does not contribute positively to your surivival. **You have died from inadvertent, extreme seduction.** [[Try again to survive Manifest 2025->Start]]

You squint at your neighbor and they blush, guffawing cartoonishly. This captures the attention of others. From your years of seductive traiing, you can't help but give them reassuring nods, which sends them into conniptions. Before you can say anything or do anything off-putting, you feel dozens of hands reaching towards you. A cuddle pile! The weight of several dozen forecasters presses down on you, compressing your spine in a very negative way that does not contribute positively to your surivival. **You have died from inadvertent, extreme seduction.** [[Try again to survive Manifest 2025->Start]]

Elias Manifold thinks for a second. Umm, ya, I think we should have one somewhere, I'd try looking in the tunnels beneath the compound. He points to a stairwell leading downward into the bowels of Lighthaven. [[Run into the tunnels]] [[Maybe you shouldn't go into mysterious tunnels]]

"Umm, I'm not sure, but have you checked the official Manifest app?" Elias Manifold replies. "That shows our locations?" "No, but it's kind of like Nextdoor. People might be posting about him." [[Open the official Manifest app]] [["That sounds fun, but I really need to go to the bathroom."->"Is there a bathroom somewhere?"]]

"Oh, it's all self-funded, we actually sold about $300 million in mana this year. $298.5 million of that was for the Martians market," Elias Manifold answers. [["The Martians market?"]]

"Ya, 'Will we find out there are little green men on Mars before 2026?'" [["That's stupid, why would people spend $298 million to bet on that market.]]

"Well, it turned out it was actually a really profound question. Obviously there aren't, like, actual green men walking around. But then someone wondered whether one of the rovers might accidentally have some lines of code in their programming that could be used to construct a convincing svg file of a little green man. And the market creator said that would count." [["That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."]]

"Well, not really, I mean, it inspired thousands of software engineers to hack into NASA's servers to get access to the code for Spirit and Opportunity, and then try to reverse engineer svg files using only the lines of code available. The market creator ruled that they couldn't, like, rearrange the characters, obviously. So the market shot down to like 20%. But then, the market creator ruled that ascii art would count, so it went up to 97%, until someone realized, how could you encode "green" with just ascii art... so now it's been hovering at around 50% for a couple months." [[Start foaming at the mouth]]

"Are you alright?" Elias Manifold asks. You are not alright, in fact. You're having some sort of reaction to this information, and it's quite negative for your cells on a molecular level. Your cell membranes begin to rapidly break down, and your mitochondria are having a really bad time as well. **You have died from spontaneous, lethal frustration.** [[Try again to survive Manifest 2025->Start]]

You click open the official Manifest app on your phone. Oh gosh, this is going to be hard. It's all written in some sort of prediction market cuneiform script. Since you aren't a native forecaster, reading this slop is making your neurons hurt on a molecular level. Nevertheless, you persist. Your eyes seek out the prediction cuneiform characters for Michael Lewis. User PredictionMarketsJoshua 11:15am: Grob grob grob put mana in escrow morp morp morp arbitraging gumroad Michael Lewis new book FREE MANA FREE MANA ESCROW long-term loans long-term arbitrage TIME Person of the Year morp morp morp grob grob grob Moneyball. Ehhh, that didn't make any sense. You keep scrolling. User StefanieLovesCrows 13:9q am: Morp morp morp grob Michael Lewis new book about MICE it's about MICE it's about MICE it's about MICE it's about MICE arbitrage long-term escrow MANA HERE MANA HERE grob grob grob morp morp morp. Okay... his new book is about mice? That makes no sense. You keep scrolling. User PredictionMarketJoshua 22:uu am: Blop blop blop blip blip bloop Michael Lewis new book NOT about MICE, about AI book AI book AI book AI MICE AI MICE AI MICE AI MICE... Okay, this isn't helpful. [[Keep scrolling]] [[You really need to go to the bathroom->"Is there a bathroom somewhere?"]]

You scroll down and see another message. Woah. This user has written in some form of prediction market hieroglyphics, which are for whatever reason far easier to read. User KaylaThePredictingLawyer 2x:z3 am: Michael Lewis's new book will be about the future of the economy in a world where mice have been replaced by AI MICE. If any of you were reading Supreme Court amicus briefs, you'd obviously be aware of this. The State of Nebraska v Michael Lewis is going to be about whether an individual can engineer some sort of super-competent AI MICE laborers, even if it damages the NATURAL MICE industry of a critical state like Nebraska. Everyone is interested in this because the UNIONIZED MICE haven't yet taken a stance. Well, that seems like a pretty definitive lead. Perhaps there's more from this user. [[Keep scrolling further]] [[You MUST go to the bathroom->"Is there a bathroom somewhere?"]]

You keep scrolling, but your bladder bursts, sending shockwaves throughout your vital organs at the center of your body. Normally, this would be pretty bad, and you'd need to go to the hospital. But because your neurons are pounding from reading large amounts of prediction market cuneiform, this is essentially non-survivable. Your cells begin to break down, first into proto-cells, and then into mitochondria, which is fairly negative, as you can imagine. **You have died from neglecting to heed your body.** [[Try again to survive Manifest 2025->Start]]

You run down the stairs into the tunnels. They're filled with degenerate prediction market enthusiasts. "Heyyyyy, wanna bet on some pigeon fighting?" says a voice. "Wanna loan? 10% interest. Fifty thousand mana. One month," says another voice. "Horses. Selling horses. Five hundred mana each," growls someone from one of the cages lining the walls. You can see a wide array of genetically-engineered mice that have been grown into the shape of tiny horses, clomping their way around his cage, getting their legs caught between the bars. "Which way to the bathroom?" you yell, desperate. "That'll cost ya," says a deep voice. [[Sure, here's a hundred mana]] [[Sure, here's a thousand mana]] [[Sure, here's a million mana]]

You hesitate, thinking about perhaps going to a local cafe to use their non-tunnels bathroom, but your bladder bursts, sending shockwaves throughout your vital organs at the center of your body. Normally, this would be pretty bad, and you'd need to go to the hospital. But because your neurons are pounding from reading large amounts of prediction market fonts, this is essentially non-survivable. Your cells begin to break down, first into proto-cells, and then into mitochondria, which is fairly negative, as you can imagine. **You have died from neglecting to heed your body.** [[Try again to survive Manifest 2025->Start]]

This offer is so inadequate and insulting that the scary voice lunges towards you, causing you to recoil. Your bladder bursts from this sudden movement, sending shockwaves throughout your vital organs at the center of your body. Normally, this would be pretty bad, and you'd need to go to the hospital. But because your neurons are pounding from reading large amounts of prediction market fonts, this is essentially non-survivable. Your cells begin to break down, first into proto-cells, and then into mitochondria, which is fairly negative, as you can imagine. **You have died from neglecting to heed your body.** [[Try again to survive Manifest 2025->Start]]

The deep voice shakes your hand, transfering a thousand of your mana to their Manifold account through biometric confirmation. They point down one of the many tunnel pathways. [[Run down the tunnel towards the bathroom]]

This offer is so insanely high and irrational that the scary voice begins to back away from you into the tunnels. The pressure in your bladder becomes too much and it bursts, sending shockwaves throughout your vital organs at the center of your body. Normally, this would be pretty bad, and you'd need to go to the hospital. But because your neurons are pounding from reading large amounts of prediction market fonts, this is essentially non-survivable. Your cells begin to break down, first into proto-cells, and then into mitochondria, which is fairly negative, as you can imagine. **You have died from neglecting to heed your body.** [[Try again to survive Manifest 2025->Start]]

After thirty seconds of agony, you find the bathroom, release your vital fluids into the receptacle, and wash your hands. Emerging from the bathroom, you realize that you're in a pretty nice part of the tunnels. You saunter down the pathway, the tunnels becoming more and more bougie. Turkish carpets line the walls and ceiling, candles adorn the sconces, and people are drinking wine and talking about Google's new website, gmice.com. Across the arched interior, you spy... Michael Lewis. [[Go over and talk to him]] [[Listen from a distance]]

Woah there, cowboy, take it easy. [[Listen from a distance]]

You walk within earshot of acclaimed writer and visionary Michael Lewis. He's talking with economist Noah Smith. "So... I just find it hard to imagine that these AI MICE will be so productive for the economy? I mean, any task an AI MOUSE can do, an American all-natural mouse can do just as well, no?" says Noah. "Ah, see, in my new novel, I envision the many ways that AI MICE will transform society..." Michael responds. [[AI MICE! Now THAT'S a scoop]]

"Okay, could you give me a few examples?" Noah Smith asks. "Like, I've yet to hear a viable use-case for AI MICE that would show up in, say, GDP or mouse unemployment numbers." "Sure, I mean, the future of drone warfare is one. AI MICE are small, have helicopter-like appendages growing out of their back that they can rotate rapidly to achieve lift, and can combust spontaneously to destroy enemy equipment or combatants." Noah Smith's jaw drops to the floor. His eyes are gaping wide in a revelatory guffaw. "And, think about computer chips. Lots of energy consumption, pretty slow and limited in use. Imagine an AI MOUSE CHIP, a mouse engineered like the Mentats of the Dune universe, which can use 97% of their neural capacity to churn out matrix algebra to run image generation of Cute Rabbits." Noah Smith drops to his knees, his hands clasped together in adoration. [[Keep listening]] [[Run for the exits to preserve your scoop before things get out of control]]

Michael Lewis keeps talking, a crowd gathering around. "But the most essential societal change that these AI MICE will bring about... is as a localized forecasting tool!" Noah Smith's eyes roll back into his head and economics fluid starts spilling out. Other members of the crowd cup their hands to catch the fluid, which will give them his intense economics wisdom. "Mice have long been known to be harbingers of natural disasters. They run uphill before the flood, they run in circles before a tornado, they ran in zigzag patterns during the industrial revolution." The crowd leans in, entranced. "In my new novel, AI MICE are critical in preventing takeover from uncontrolled AI superintelligence." The crowd sinks to its knees, entranced. "AI MICE have been trained to recognize the behavior of misaligned AI. They will nip at your toes to warn you when an AI takeover is imminent, giving you time to TURN IT OFF." The crowd is in rapture. Forecasting fluid begins to seep out of the audience's pores. [[Keep listening->Keep listening 2]] [[Run for the exits to preserve your scoop before things get out of control->Run for the exits 2]]

You make a mad dash out of the tunnels and onto the street, where you hail a dark web Waymo knockoff to take you back to the NYT headquarters in New New York (Palo Alto). You run to your editor's desk and try to explain to him Michael Lewis's new book. "Uhhh, so there are these AI MICE, and they're like... attack drones... and they can generate Cute Rabbit photos... and... it's great for the economy." "What the heck," says your editor. "Our readership does not care about drones. Our readership does not care about the Economy. Maybe I can pitch the Rabbit angle for a story in the NYT Cooking section..." This is not how you envisioned this meeting going. You go into the NYT headquarters crying room and cry until you get dehydrated and pass out. **You have made algorithmic slop and probably won't survive the shame.** [[Try again to survive Manifest 2025->Start]]

Michael Lewis's voice becomes sober. "Of course, AI MICE present risks, as well. Some scientists believe it is unethical to experiment this way on mice. Many mice unions are unsure whether they support AI MICE augmentation. And when AI MICE nibble on your toes, it can, though rare, cause a rash that spreads up to your ankles." The audience nods their head thoughfully. [[Keep listening->Keep listening 3]] [[Run for the exits to preserve your scoop before things get out of control->Win]]

You make a mad dash out of the tunnels and onto the street, where you hail a dark web Waymo knockoff to take you back to the NYT headquarters in New New York (Palo Alto). You run to your editor's desk and try to explain to him Michael Lewis's new book. "Uhhh, so there are these AI MICE, and they're like... attack drones... and they can generate Cute Rabbit photos... and... it's great for the economy. And it might prevent an AI takeover by biting our feet!" "What the heck," says your editor. "Our readership does not care about drones. Our readership does not care about the Economy. And our readership certainly does not care about AI. Maybe I can pitch the Rabbit angle for a story in the NYT Cooking section..." This is not how you envisioned this meeting going. You go into the NYT headquarters crying room and cry until you get dehydrated and pass out. **You have made algorithmic slop and probably won't survive the shame.** [[Try again to survive Manifest 2025->Start]]

Michael Lewis starts to smirk. "Of course, most people will be interested in using the AI MICE in advanced, futuristic Pleasure Domes, where the AI MICE service the elite humans by tapping directly into their molecular wiring. The AI MICE exploit an "infinite pleasure" vulnerability, whereby a dopaminurgic chain reaction is set off, allowing any human with a Ratatouille-like AI MOUSE NEURAL APPENDAGE to transcend into some sort of jhana-like state..." The crowd cannot control itself. People start to take out their phones and place massive bets on all sorts of related markets. The WiFi in the room goes haywire and the vibrations are starting to corrode your spinal lining. [[Run]]

You make a mad dash out of the tunnels and onto the street, where you hail a dark web Waymo knockoff to take you back to the NYT headquarters in New New York (Palo Alto). You run to your editor's desk and try to explain to him Michael Lewis's new book. "Uhhh, so there are these AI MICE, and they're like... bad... because they bite your toes and cause a rash... and the mice unions are pissed... and it's probably unethical to change mice from their natural state..." Your editor is grinning ear to ear. A rash, you say? Caused by AI MICE? And these crazy rationalists want a rash on every person's ankle, probably because of their weird sexual proclivities. Now THAT'S a scoop. Go write up the story. You're a *senior* writer now. **You have found a tremendous scoop, saved your career, and survived Manifest.** [[End Credits]]

It's too late. Your spinal lining is corroded. The last thing you manage to do is pull out your phone and bet up your own name on the market "Whose spinal linings will deteriorate at Manifest?" You make like 12 mana on this trade, since there's basically no liquidity in the market. **Your spinal lining is toast and so are you because you got greedy on your scoop.** [[Try again to survive Manifest 2025->Start]]

Thank you for reading this work of interactive fiction. If you liked it, feel free to let Ben S. know you demand more. If you hate it, or you are personally offended by the portrayal of one of the characters in this story, Ben S. is sincerely apologetic, and wants you to know this is in the style of a Clickhole Clickventure and no harm was meant. Please do not sue me or quote this story out of context in the New York Times. [[Try again to survive Manifest 2025->Start]]