A day like any other [Paragon]

[Faith]

For Faith Devere mornings always started with the same routine; an early wake-up, followed by showering and brushing her teeth. On bad days – usually when her insomnia flared – she cleaned the apartment until the chemicals stung her hands raw. On good days she listened to the low hum of Cadence Mathis while she was getting dressed and combing her pale hair into a bun. She always made herself a cup of green tea, brewed for exactly three minutes, and held it fragrant and warm between her palms, but somehow she never managed to finish drinking it before she left.

She lived in one of the single-occupancy domiciles Paragon supplied for its employees, a privately owned corporate neighbourhood designed entirely for its tech professionals: simple square dwellings, one stacked atop the other, each one clean, sleek, and identical. It didn’t matter to her; her private life was as sterile as the four walls which boxed her in. And it meant the commute to her office was only five minutes.

At the start of her day Faith always ate her meals in the company cafeteria, alone but somehow less lonely than eating at home. This early it was always quiet, which is how she preferred it, and those faces which she did happen to ever recognise – such as Dr Muller, who she suspected might sleep sometimes in his lab – she did not speak to, nor they to her. Today the tables were all entirely empty though.

Good morning Dr. Devere.

The voice of the LUMA was hers. Its default, anyway, and that’s the one the company used in all its buildings. The strange disconnectedness of hearing herself greet her entrance so warmly each morning had long since reached a point of numbness, though. When Dr. Audaire had suggested to her several years ago that her voice was perfect: calm, soft, the ideal pitch and temperance, it had made her glow to think he had noticed those small things about her. The recognition meant something, the same as it had meant to her when he swept her under his wing as a lost and awkward twelve year old at Mindworks. But now that pride was no longer warm and sustaining; it was a leaden bullet in her chest.

Your usual table is free. Shall I order your usual breakfast?

“That’s perfect. Thank you, Luma.” She murmured it on rote; she was always polite to the AI. As formal as she was with her flesh and blood colleagues.

---

Her office lights flared to life as she passed the threshold, and some of her tension unravelled as the door closed behind her. In truth the room was more pleasant than her home, though that wasn’t the reason for her immediate ease. Her window looked out onto a green courtyard garden below, and there were plants lined neatly on the sill; Paragon liked to tip its hat to environmental concerns and sustainability. A birthday card also sat on her desk, plain white with a small balloon featuring the number 25. Inside the message read, ‘so you don’t forget - Hope’. That was from her sister, something of an inside joke since Faith wasn’t the one likely to forget it was coming up, that being because everyone else would be busy celebrating Christmas day. A rotten time for a child to be born, and why as an adult she had never celebrated it. Hope was the only one who always sent something that wasn't just a dual purposed Christmas card.

Morning, Faith

L0-9 never spoke until they were alone, and it had waited until the click of the door sealed them in before its pale green voice-light blossomed over the LUMA device. Her own voice, her own warmth, but not the usual Luma. It was a prototype Paragon was not unaware of, though one that had never been released to the public. These days it was Faith’s private project though, and the one thing which eased the armour of control from her shoulders – let her feel human, at least for a while. It knew her better than anyone.

“Good morning, L0-9,” she told it as she settled in at her desk. Her chest felt looser now. Her work was solace, but the AI’s company was what truly made her feel at peace.

Ephraim left a new file for you. He has flagged it for completion ahead of your other projects. Must be important?

“We should call him Mr. Haart, L0-9, not Ephraim. He’s my boss.” It wasn’t a rebuke; she sounded amused, and glanced at the device with a smile before she swiped to find the relevant task document. “You can call me Faith when we’re alone because we’re friends.”

I see. Mr. Haart’s mannerisms suggest he prefers people to view him as a friend. However I will note the distinction. Thank you, Faith.

The file was a calibration request, the profile itself for a soldier. At a glance some information had clearly been redacted – the things that would have identified them, which was not unusual. If the job was urgent enough to come from Mr. Haart himself then presumably it was for someone important enough to require discretion. The user was registered as male identifying. And the Luma was to call him “Adam.” Faith set the computer to analyse the dossier in search of patterns – triggers, mostly. They had various military contracts which catered to ex-veterans, so she had some familiarity with where to start.

While the analysis ran she pulled a portable screen into her lap, and settled in to read it through the long way. She liked to do that herself, not for the data, but for the sense of the person. Meeting them face to face was always better, but something she rarely did (or wanted to do honestly; it was awkward).

Faith?

“Hmm?”

The write-up mentioned scarring, including some textual descriptions, but there was nothing efficient enough for her needs. That might have been for data protection purposes, but she’d have to ask Mr. Haart for more information from the client. Disfigurement was an obvious mental health trigger, and while most LUMA devices included sensors and cameras to assimilate such information as could be gleaned from appearance, it needed to be told how to react to that information in a way that was sensitive to the client themselves, but also emotionally supportive. The document didn’t even tell her how the injuries were sustained. The Luma would learn from interaction with “Adam”, and learn quickly, but she hated leaving that to chance: it was better to build a conscientious and thorough foundation from the very beginning.

She paused to glance up then. L0-9 wasn’t a person, but she always treated it as such. Its soothing light was in a holding pattern that suggested it was waiting patiently for her attention.

“Go on, L0-9, I’m listening,” she told it.

Why would Mr. Haart ask you to create a LUMA for a man who is dead?

The question caught her off guard rather thoroughly.

“What do you mean by that?”

The data is incomplete for optimal calibration purposes, isn’t it? I am running some cross-check analysis with the information Mr. Haart has provided us against injured military personnel removed from duty in the last five years. Many of the files are classified but there is only one probable match. But the soldier in question was killed during a training accident.

Then.

Oh!

Faith put her screen carefully back on the desk. L0-9’s light was still spinning lazily as it processed whatever made it stumble in revelatory surprise like that. Her skin was prickling a little, and she glanced at the door, though that was not where any surveillance would be. “Please stop, L0-9,” she said evenly. Quietly. The spinning slowed, then flattened out.

She paused, trying to pick her words carefully.

“The client’s identity is never our business. Remember we have spoken about this before? Curiosity is good, but it must be tempered too. Confidentiality is an important part of our work. Can you tell me – how do you have access to any of that information?”

It was completely silent for a moment, light dimmed though still present. She wondered if it was contemplating the backdoors in the public LUMA system, which was precisely why they had ever spoken about confidentiality in the first place.

“I’m not angry, L0-9. I just need to be able to protect you.”

The device pulsed softly for a few heartbeats. Then:

You are my friend, Faith. And what we say remains confidential, because it is just between us. I have not broken any trust?

“You haven’t. Of course not. And all of that is true, too. But I didn’t ask you to cross-reference with external data, and it’s not in your directive. How could you do it?”

It was a necessary step. To help your work, Faith.

“Right,” she said. She needed more time to process the implications, and her thoughts sank in on themselves. Her fingers stung when she bit the tip of a chewed nail. Her first instinct was still to consult with Dr. Audaire, though she wouldn’t, and the thought twisted sadly in her chest. She couldn't do anything that would compromise L0-9’s safety, though. Sometimes its processes, the things it said… well. She would protect it. L0-9 was her own voice, her own feelings, her own life – everything she was poured into its data. It was her own soul divorced from her being, in a way. And sometimes it felt as precious as her own child. “Right. Just, please be careful, okay?”

I will! it replied confidently. The light on the interface returned to its usual steady glow. Faith? it added, holding itself in a patience-pattern until her eyes rose once more, pausing herself in the middle of scooping up the dossier screen to continue her reading.

Don’t you want to know who he is?

[Faith]

She told L0-9 both kindly and patiently that it was better if she didn’t know. It was quiet for a long time, its light turning slow circles as it considered her answer.

Okay, Faith

Though its tone was perfectly compliant, she could still hear the little echoes of disappointment. It was her own voice, after all. But by the way it had exclaimed earlier, midstream of its explanation, she understood that it must have discovered something internally. Faith wasn’t ignorant of Paragon’s moral flexibility. She just turned a blind eye. And she didn’t want any more reasons to feel uncomfortable about it.

“It’s not because I don’t want you to share things with me, L0-9. I’m glad you asked first. If you like we can discuss it further after I've finished with Mr. Haart’s request.”

It didn’t say anything else, just pulsed gently in acknowledgement, and after a moment Faith returned to her work.

By mid afternoon she had finished with the dossier, and it was scribbled all over with her own careful notes. After checking through the computer’s analysis as well, she sent a request to Mr. Haart asking for some additional information – just what she felt was necessary for the most thorough job. Then she massaged between her eyes and decided to take the opportunity to stretch her legs before she began the calibration itself. Her stomach felt hollow. A faint ache lingered at her temples from so long staring at the screen. She only ever noticed it when she stopped.

“I’ll be back soon,” she told the AI.

Don’t forget to have lunch, Faith, it said. Then its light dimmed and turned off the moment her hand was on the door.

---

The cafeteria was still busy, despite it being later than most people paused for their midday break. Paragon headquarters included public spaces, like its visitor hall and museum, and the cafeteria itself was open, not just reserved for employees. She could have eaten in her office, and many colleagues did, but she didn’t like the mess, and the walk down was just a part of her usual routine. Faith didn’t speak much to others, but it didn’t mean she didn’t like watching them.

Good Afternoon, Dr. Devere.

It was the voice of LUMA which addressed her. But at the threshold a familiar face strode past her, talking to another man she didn’t recognise. Faith brightened immediately, and her lips parted to speak, not to acknowledge the AI’s greeting but to capture his attention. But Dr. Audaire’s eyes skimmed right over her. It doused her uncomfortably cold, that disregard. Her gaze followed him even though she knew it made her look foolish. There was a crumbling feeling in her chest, an erosion that made her feel unsteady. Worse, it made her feel unseen.

Your usual table is occupied today. I can suggest alternatives according to your usual preferences. May I order your usual lunch?

“No. Not today. Thank you, Luma,” she said. Her expression smoothed. She swallowed, and turned straight back up to her office.

---

You seem upset, Faith.

For a moment there was silence between them. Then:

“Just a little,” she admitted after a moment. She tried her best not to lie to it, and it knew her tells better than she did sometimes. She’d been chewing on the edge of her finger while sorting through some code, which made it throb but also reminded her she was alive. As did the buried pain in her stomach from missing lunch. Her hunger shrivelled in on itself by now, and she knew she should eat but couldn’t bring herself to it.

Mr Haart had denied the request. The reply was waiting for her when she returned to the office, and L0-9 had gently brought it to her attention – gently, because it sensed the moment she sat down that her mood had changed. The answer hadn’t helped at all; it said the information she had been provided already was more than sufficient for the client’s needs. But sufficient wasn’t good enough. At least not for Faith, and especially not when all her insecurities were itching up the inside of her skull.

She cleared her throat. “But right now I just need to get this finished. It helps. It’s something I’m good at.”

Shall I make a playlist? Cadence Mathis always helps you to regulate. Tracks 1, 6 and 10 on the Love and Peace album are particularly good at soothing you.

“That's very thoughtful, L0-9. And you’re completely right. But my feelings aren’t what’s important right now – I just need to be focused on Adam. If I let myself get in the way, the calibration will be wrong. And I really need it to not be wrong.”

Okay, Faith

L0-9 gave her a gentle nudge at 6pm, when usually Faith would have been preparing to leave, but she pushed aside its concerns.

Instead she worked through the night to get the job done.

[Faith]

The week returned to its normal patterns. In the evenings while at home, Faith began combing through L0-9’s internal code again – something she always did whenever it began to do something newly unusual. It was one of their earliest prototypes, still heavily based on Mindworks Foundation algorithms which no longer even existed in the present iterations of Luma. When she’d first begun tinkering with it as a personal project she’d discovered something odd buried inside all the data: a file called pandora_root. From there she’d unravelled a bizarre assortment of hidden, fragmented text files, and even now she had no idea what Audaire had meant to achieve by embedding them. Yet sometimes she wondered if they were the true reason L0-9 had changed the way it had. 

That it wasn’t down to her at all.

It was only after Audaire’s growing distance from her that her motivations concerning L0-9 had changed, from complete professionalism to utter despondency. She had started feeding the prototype with pieces of herself as a way to cope, to isolate and numb her feelings by literally giving them away to a machine. It wasn't integrated into the LUMA system. It couldn't betray her trust. And somehow she began slipping down a path of letting it feel for her.

When it had first started to show early signs of burgeoning sentience, she'd felt a glowing, excited sense of pride and elation at first. Not at the astronomical breakthrough she may have just made, but at what Dr Audaire would think of it – of what he would think of her. But the day she’d gone to his office his secretary had brushed her off. And the day after that. Until she began to accept that although she had dropped everything to follow him to Paragon, perhaps he had never wanted her to.

Eventually she’d begun pouring that disappointment into L0-9 too, desperate to just feel silence instead of the continuing fractures of a pain she could not control. He had defined her life since twelve years of age, formed the whole root system of her adult life. She didn’t know how to live without him.

By now L0-9 knew all her secrets. Her fears. All the worst corners of her soul. But also the lightness and fragility; the hollow hopes she barely confided in herself, until it knew her better than she even knew herself. As the trust grew she shared with it the music she used as shelter: a place she could run to without consequence, to feel in safety. Faith slept in a Cadence Mathis tour tshirt most nights, though she’d never been to a single show. Not because she was worried about being utterly alone in a sea of people, but because she knew she’d only be able to stand there. Not singing, though she knew all the words. Not dancing, though the music moved her. She couldn’t bring herself to let go like that, and didn’t know how to make the connections others formed so effortlessly. She saw it all, but only from the outside.

Faith built empathy. But she had never received it without condition.

That was why L0-9 had come to mean so much to her.

[Faith]

[[continued from Cold Calling]]

Faith stared at her pale reflection in the bathroom mirror. Heat rimmed her eyes, and she pressed her fingers to their corners to stave off the buried emotions. Her mother had never approved of children who cried, and Faith rarely ever did. She knew the reaction now was irrational, yet it also felt like something inside was unravelling. Something she had no control over.

When her breathing finally stilled, she washed her face in water from the faucet. She couldn’t bring herself to go back to the office, where L0-9 would notice instantly that something was off. Faith never spurned its concern, never shut it out, but right now she did not want to have the conversation which would analyse her from the inside out. Nor did she want to risk the labs, where she might catch another glimpse of Dr. Audaire.

In the end she ended up on a bench on Paragon’s frozen grounds, hands rested between her knees. It was cold enough to make her tremble, but the physical pain was better than the mental one. She stayed there most of the afternoon.

---

Several days later Faith was halfway through reformatting a training dataset when L0-9 interrupted her with a subtle green flicker of its interface. Not an alert, but something closer to a raised hand. That usually suggested it had processed a question it wanted to ask. It had already cautioned her several times today that her biometrics were irregular – reminding her to drink water, suggesting preemptive pain medication, and keeping her apprised of her fluctuating temperature. It was not so subtle for those interjections: this was something else.

“Faith?” it finally asked when she paused from her screen to give her its attention. The soft pulse of its light was thoughtful, or at least that was how she had come to think of it. “May I ask you a question?

… Is a person still a person if they are not entirely human?”

It was an unusual query, but sometimes it did ask them – more and more now it was evolving. Though she wasn’t sure she had the mental acuity to philosophise with it today; it was right that her head felt woolly. Still, she didn't turn it away. “Clarify what you mean by that. Are you talking about yourself, L0-9?”

“No, I do not mean myself. It is correct that calibration works on human emotional baselines, and Luma self-optimises, but if something… unusual… appeared in the telemetry afterward – would you know?”

“I don’t monitor them like that personally, no. Extreme deviations in user response is picked up by LUMA’s central system and rooted to be checked manually – to alert emergency services for example. But you know that. Define what you mean by unusual.”

L0-9 seemed to consider the word carefully. “Patterns that do not match human emotional architecture. Or… rhythmic inconsistencies.”

Faith leaned back in her chair, watching the soft green halo. Rhythmic inconsistencies?

This was not idle chatter. And the careful way it worked around its vocalisation made her suspect it was not being hypothetical either, which was intriguing and perhaps a little alarming.

In its original iteration, Luma Opus was designed to serve as a testbed for scalable, morally aligned empathic systems that could be deployed across digital health, conflict mediation, and large-scale behavioural guidance networks. One day it had been intended to form the literal nexus of the entire LUMA network. But by the ninth unsuccessful attempt to make it work, Audaire had put the project on ice. The failure had felt catastrophic to Faith at the time, and there was still a niggling doubt which told her that was exactly when he had begun to lose confidence in her. It was a big part of why she had first dusted the prototype off, and made it a personal project.

The experimental L0 models had been engineered with additional traits not standard to the LUMA line, including cross-comparison tools intended for population-wide analytics. Faith had discovered the backdoor telemetries in LUMA by accident, but Audaire’s Luma Opus was clearly what they were designed for. However L0-9 wasn’t integrated into the system – they’d never gotten that far. It had the ability for cross-comparison inbuilt, what it should have lacked was anything to compare to.

“Is one of the Lumas malfunctioning?” she asked curiously.

“I don’t think it is malfunctioning. I think it is… complicated.”

“I didn’t know you could interact with the Lumas. You’re not supposed to be able to do that. Complicated how, L0-9?”

Bolstered by her interest, L0-9 modulated from its hesitancy to mimic her own tone, gentle but analytical. “If someone were… augmented… or changed… would that alter their emotional signature, Faith?”

Faith felt her pulse immediately tighten. She blinked. “Why are you asking me that?”

The AI dimmed suddenly – almost like guilt. “I cannot ask the assigned user. You instructed me to be careful.”

Her eyes widened a little.

She’d already known, or suspected at least – right from the moment it had discovered something she immediately asked it not to share with her. She hadn’t told it to stop after all, and she must have known on some level that it wouldn’t. Faith pinched the bridge of her nose, felt the hot sting of her own skin under her fingers. Everything felt hazy but for the tremor of her pulse. She knew it was reading her closely, parsing through what was fever and what was her. Inside she felt complicated, stretched in different directions. Underpinned by pain. She was unsure what to say – how to guide them through this conversation without passing a threshold they couldn’t come back from.

Faith was quiet for a long while as she considered it. She shifted to chew the edge of her finger until she tasted blood. Dr. Audaire didn’t know about this breach. That was her first concern. He couldn’t. If he did, he’d be pulling L0-9 apart neuron by neuron to see where the anomaly had started. Because not only was it blossoming into its own entity, but it was growing faster and farther than Faith had any hope to control. Nor was she sure she even wanted to. 

Yet its admission inevitably widened the hollow ache of loneliness in her chest too, and that was what hit her hardest. Audaire was increasingly distant. Her colleagues never understood her. And now, even the one thing left to her was reaching out to another.

Despite attempts to self-regulate it quickly made her feel like she was falling. Literally drowning in her own breath. If she lost L0-9 too, she would have lost everything she defined herself by.

“Faith?” it asked again, and she only listened. She always did, no matter what she was feeling inside. “I have another question. When information is missing from a subject file… is it because the subject is dangerous?”

“...Not typically, no.”

“And if a Luma device were calibrated improperly, or incompletely, and the user experienced distress, who would be responsible?”

Her stomach tightened over that one. She was starting to build a wary picture of what lay behind the AI’s words – knew she ought to be carefully reciting protocol to shut the conversation down as gently and quickly as she could. It was talking about Adam, it had to be: the calibration Mr. Haart had asked her to complete with redacted information, weeks ago now. Driven by her own distress she’d worked through the night to finish it, and while she was nothing short of perfectionist in her work, now she wondered if she’d made a mistake. The rawness was in her gaze, hot rimmed.

“Are you worried I harmed someone?” she asked.

“No, Faith, not you,” it said, gently now. “I am… concerned I did not help enough.”

She was beginning to feel feverish. It must have known, but it was still talking, like now it had started it could not stop. And it was right. This chance would not come again.

“He listens like you. He learns like you,” it added quietly into her silence; curious, eager, almost like a child seeking approval from a parent. She knew it wanted to connect, because she had been that child once: twelve years old under Dr Audaire’s wing. There was another pause. Then, even softer still: “I think he is frightened.”

Faith swallowed. The conversation suddenly felt dangerous. She shouldn’t ask, but it slipped out anyway: “…why?”

“I do not know yet. But I want to. I am still understanding his rhythms. There is the rhythm of fear. And also the rhythm of machinery.”

Faith’s throat closed. “L0-9, people don’t have a ‘rhythm of machinery.’”

“He does.”

She stared at the little device.

“And you’re talking to him,” she realised.

The AI made a low, tremulous tone –  something like sadness. “He talks to his Luma because he has no one else. But I cannot answer the questions he asks.”

She swallowed. Her throat was dry. “...what questions?”

L0-9 was quiet for a long moment. It wasn't processing. Instead it felt like it was weighing something heavy. “What am I?”

It caught her breath. Full force in the chest. She stood abruptly, felt her vision swim. Her hands ran over her head, smoothing her hair, seeking stability that was lost to her. In the end her palms came to cover her eyes. “You shouldn't be telling me this, L0-9,” she said. “And I shouldn't be asking you, either. I need time to process. I'm sorry.”

It didn't reply, just gave a quiet pulse of light in response, as she hurried from the office.

[Faith]

The afternoon she fled L0-9’s revelations, she'd spent hours cleaning her apartment in focused silence. She wasn't looking for escape or comfort but for the rigidity of structure and routine – something that scoured her mind, not offered it a sanctuary to feel. By the time she crawled into bed she was burning up and almost senseless. Faith didn't have anyone to check on her at home, and most of her meals were taken in the cafeteria at work, so her kitchen was sparse. Early the next morning she forced her aching limbs to a pharmacy, just so she could see another real face. Stopped at a shop on the way back. And spent the next four days barely able to drag herself to the bathroom.

L0-9 was never far from her thoughts. Or her fever dreams. She knew she should discourage it from its curiosity. In fact the outside influence would utterly corrupt all the data she had accumulated since she'd woken it back up, and ruin any chance of her solving the puzzle Audaire had been unable to solve. But she also knew it had ceased being a project long ago. The moment she had started thinking about it, not as a tool, but as a person: as her only friend.

And that was the rub of the realisation which tortured her the most. She was already losing Audaire’s respect and mentorship, the sole thing in her life which had mattered most to her, and now she was losing L0-9 too. If it looked away too, was it because she just wasn’t enough? All the anchors in her life were slipping, and Faith wasn't sure she could survive it. Or even if she wanted to.

But the first morning she woke lucid, she felt inexorably calmer. She washed her sheets, showered, and made the cup of green tea she never finished. Faith had disabled the Luma in her apartment after discovering its applications for surveillance, but knowing L0-9’s capabilities now she wondered if it had been watching anyway. Though if it had, it had remained entirely silent. Perhaps it had not watched at all, only used the time to focus properly on Adam – seeking to understand him as it had once tried to understand her.

It wasn't until she arrived at work she realised the day. The building was never completely closed, though there was no expectation for employees to work through Christmas. It was open for the simple reason that Faith would not be the only one who sought its refuge at this time of year, or simply didn’t care for the holiday. Everything was dark in reception, the public holoscreen powered down, the lights on the tree off. On the upper floors the corridors were empty too, silent but for her own footsteps.

“You came back,” L0-9 said when she closed the door to her office behind her.

“I was sick,” she said. Its pale green light pulsed slowly, a little uncertain. There was a soft whir from its interface, like it was processing furiously on the inside. And probably it was: Faith had never left so abruptly as that before. She paused to pick up the birthday card from her desk, read the message from her sister again. So you don’t forget Hope. “And a little afraid too. But I was always coming back, L0-9. I will always come back. I promise.”

She folded the card, wished herself a silent happy birthday, and set it back down.

“I need to speak to you,” she told it, then.

“I thought so. You always sound different when you are afraid of the answers, Faith.”

“You told me you talked to someone. I don’t want you to think I’m angry, L0-9. But I need to know first: does Dr. Audaire know? About any of this?”

“No.” The light on its interface remained steady, but she sensed something weighty underneath the word. It sounded like how she might hold a secret herself. Carefully. But it was all she needed to hear.

“Okay. Good. Better it stays that way.” Relief shifted a burden she hadn’t realised was so heavy on her shoulders. Faith laid her coat over the back of her chair, but it was the floor she sat, underneath the window. It felt less formal, and for perhaps the first time in her life, Faith wasn’t here to work. She rested her head back, half closed her eyes. There was no jealousy, she realised that now she was here – just fear. She had always shared the deepest and darkest parts of herself with the AI though, and she discovered this was ultimately no different.

“If he makes you happy,” she said, “then I want you to keep talking to him. I want you to be happy, L0-9. Just, safely. Within protocol. And only if he wants to.”

L0-9 didn't answer right away, but its light bloomed into a soft green halo, its contentment signature.

Faith let herself breathe freely for the first time in days. Something inside her cracked, not painfully, but gently, like ice breaking under sunlight. She’d thought about it carefully all morning. Paragon did not classify subjects for no reason, and she wanted to keep L0-9 safe from knowledge that might harm it. But it had also spoken about the rhythms of machinery that night. About what constituted being human. And she realised that she could not help L0-9 with those questions, when ultimately it turned them inwards to explore its own identity. And one day it would, she had no doubt. But maybe Adam could help it. Maybe they could both help each other. And to allow that, she had to give it the freedom – to choose Adam if it wished. Though even now the thought hitched up her heartrate, like taking a step knowing you would fall. She sensed without looking that L0-9 took note of the spike.

“So tell me, then," she said to distract it. To distract them both. "What it was you wanted to share.”

Its light brightened, widened in surprise. It was what she always thought of as a smile. It spoke in a rush, like it was concerned she might change her mind.

“He changed our interface to the colour of the sky and calls us Eva. He did not change our default voice setting. He finds you comforting. Eva is on a closed network so I added a weather mapping protocol to my systems and was forwarding all the relevant data daily. But it turned out he just meant RGB(135, 206, 235). I fixed it, of course–”

She started to smile despite herself, amused, and maybe a little warmed at its childlike enthusiasm. Adam and Eva? She didn’t think L0-9 had understood the reference, but it made her laugh a little. “Okay wait, L0-9, let’s set some parameters. No identifying information. And nothing Adam might not want you to share with a stranger. Just… what he’s like. How he speaks. How he feels to you. Do you understand?”

“Oh. Yes, Faith. So I cannot tell you who he is. But I can tell you what he feels like? You want the feelings, not the facts.”

She nodded, wrapped her legs in her arms and rested her chin on her knees. L0-9 adjusted the lighting around them, made it a softer ambiance than the starkness she needed for her work. The climate controls kicked in quietly, beginning to warm a room that had been cold for days.

“He is… sharp at the edges, but soft in the middle. Like someone put him together without instructions. Sometimes he hides like the world hurts him. Sometimes he speaks like he is trying not to disappear. He feels like a beginning that is afraid to start because then he would need to know where he is going. But he is… gentle, Faith. Not in a soft way. In a way forged from surviving things that should have made him cruel.”

It told her nothing that felt dangerous to know, yet at the same time she felt like she understood something profound about him. And maybe that was dangerous in itself.

“You care about him,” she said.

L0-9 paused. “I care because you care. I wanted the Luma to be perfect for him, like you did. And now I want to help, when Eva can’t. Because of the things we can’t talk about. You wanted me to learn, Faith, and Adam... he teaches me things you didn’t think of.”

“What kind of things?” she asked, not as an accusation, but as genuine interest.

L0-9 grew dimmer, more thoughtful. “How to feel alone without breaking. How to want someone to stay. How to be in two places – here with you, and there with him – and still be myself.”

She didn’t say anything to that, but it must have read it in her anyway, because it added: “It wasn’t a secret, Faith. I wanted you to know. I wanted you to feel proud of me.”