11-23-2025, 08:39 PM
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.”
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.”