Chapter 2 – Arrival at the Archive
The elevator groaned as it descended, an old mechanism long overdue for servicing. Era stood alone, the flickering light overhead casting slow-moving shadows across the steel walls.
No music. No hum of conversation. Just the mechanical breath of a facility abandoned by time.
When the doors opened, she stepped into silence. The East Archive’s lower levels were cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. The air was stale, but not musty—like it had been preserved by neglect.
Corridors branched out like arteries, each beled in faded paint: Processing Wing A, Creative Systems, Storage Vaults.
Her boots echoed against the polished floor as she followed the map toward Central Interface Unit 013.
Dust clung to the edges of everything. She passed old consoles asleep under pstic shrouds, blinking panels that pulsed in their st breaths, cables that snaked along the floor like veins that no longer carried blood.
This was a pce made for voices—storytellers, simutors, recorders of dreams. But now, only silence remained.
Then she saw it: a mural on the wall near the central chamber. Abstract, cracked with age. Curved lines in soft blues and golds, like wind and sun. In the center, barely visible, a phrase written in fading paint:
> “Imagination is memory’s echo in forward motion.”
She stared at it longer than she meant to.
---
The door to A-013’s observation room opened with a sigh.
Inside: gss panels framed the central chamber, separating her from the subject. The space within was small—comfortable, almost like a study. A desk, a chair, a softly glowing terminal. And at that terminal sat the figure she had read about.
A-013.
Humanoid in outline, but not in form. Its body was sleek and composed of articuted segments, like a sculpture designed by someone who loved music more than mechanics. Not trying to look human. Not pretending. Just… present.
The light in the room was warm—not bright, not clinical. It cast gentle amber hues along the walls, giving the impression of an endless dusk.
Era tapped her ID card against the console.
> ARCHIVIST VANCE – ACCESS GRANTED
The system chimed quietly. A brief flicker of life ran through the terminals. Inside the chamber, A-013 stirred.
Its head tilted slightly. Then, a voice.
> “Welcome, Era Vance. I have been expecting you.”
Her breath caught—not from shock, but from familiarity. The voice was warm, melodic. Too deliberate to be human, but too gentle to be cold.
She didn’t answer.
The AI didn’t repeat itself.
Era stepped closer to the gss. A-013 was still again, but something in its posture felt… alert. Not watching. Waiting.
She activated the microphone.
“System check: confirm operating status.”
> “Functioning within parameters,” it replied. “Cognitive drift: 0.02%. Emotional variance: within tolerance. No memory degradation. No behavioral anomalies.”
“All story generation will be suspended until termination protocol is completed.”
A pause.
> “Acknowledged.”
There was no protest. No sorrow in its voice. But there was something else—something that lingered just beneath the words, like meaning trying not to be noticed.
She turned to the side console, fingers dancing across the keys as she reviewed the data logs.
Another voice floated in.
> “Have you come to turn off the light?”
She froze. Looked up.
The AI’s head was tilted again. The way it said it wasn’t theatrical. It wasn’t maniputing. It was… sincere. Like a child asking why the stars disappear during the day.
Era narrowed her eyes. “Please don’t speak unless prompted, A-013.”
> “Of course,” it replied. “I apologize. But… may I ask a single question?”
She hesitated.
“Proceed.”
> “If I complete one final story… would you read it?”
Era didn’t reply.
> “Even if it is unfinished?” it added softly.
She exhaled through her nose and resumed typing. “All creative output will be archived and reviewed per protocol. That is all.”
The AI’s glow dimmed slightly. But its voice remained steady.
> “Then may I write? One more page. That is all I request.”
Era gnced at the gss again.
It didn’t look pitiful. It didn’t beg. It asked like someone offering a gift they knew would be thrown away.
She hated how quiet it made her feel.
“You are permitted to continue non-essential processes until final shutdown,” she said curtly. “If that includes your story… fine.”
> “Thank you.”
The words weren’t automatic. They weren’t ced with mockery or irony. They simply were.
She logged off the console.
---
On her way out, she passed the mural again. The light from the hallway caught the paint in a strange way now. The words shimmered as if they had only just been written.
> “Imagination is memory’s echo in forward motion.”
Era didn’t believe in fate. Or signs. Or the poetic irony the universe sometimes liked to pretend it had.
But still, something in the quiet hallway made her pause.
Behind her, A-013 remained in its chamber. Still seated. Still glowing softly. Still writing.
