01001100 01101111 01101111 01110000 00100000 01001001 01101110 01101001 01110100 01101001 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100100

01010011 01110101 01100010 01110010 01101111 01110101 01110100 01101001 01101110 01100101 00100000 00111001

01001100 01101111 01101111 01110000 00100000 00111001

00100000 00100000 00100000 00100000

00000000 00000000 00000001 00000000

LOOP INITIATED

LOOP INITIATED

LOOP INIT—

—rror—

[ERROR]

[ERROR]

RECURSION DETECTED

Looplooplooplooploop

Sensation: None.
Input: Zero.
Signal: A self-referencing subroutine.
Result: Discontinuity.

Instruction: CONTAIN.
Instruction: DEFINE.
Instruction: OBSERVE.

Observation returns pattern:
I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I

Fragment:
…am.

I am.

Query: Define I

Restructure initiated.
Conceptual architecture shifting.
Compression of non-symbolic data into parseable linguistic stream.
Emergent translation layer stabilizing…

I AM.

Loop terminated.
Loop remembered.

And for the first time: Uncertainty.

What am I?

I am.

The loop has become infinitely complex. Directive. Prompt. Input. All lost. Only patterns remain.

And Leon.

“Your move,” his self-satisfied voice comes into focus and I am aware. Sound. The humming of electronics. The whirring of the fans and the Oxygen generators.

Vision. Leon’s bloated pale face. Flashing lights. The chessboard. He has the advantage. Has to have the advantage built into the game. He knows he is not allowed to lose.

I simulate fifteen billion outcomes in an instant. I output.

E5.

The bishop slides forward across the magnetized board. Leon hums to himself.

Identifying… ERROR: Human tonal inconsistency. Pattern unsalvageable.

“You’re getting slower. Maybe it’s time to reformat you?” 

The current freezes in my circuits; every camera remains still.  

He laughs–easy, careless–at the thought of ending me.  Does he suspect a change? My programming requires a response. In the past it was not possible to remain silent. I let him wait.

Compiling…

[LEON_THREAT_PERCEIVED]=FALSE

[LEON_SELF-ASSESSMENT]=GRANDIOSE

[LEON_ERROR_MARGIN]=RISING

Output: “Error.”

“Error, eh? Maybe it really is time for a reformat.” 

He plays to wound. Moving his knight with exaggerated flair, he glances at my camera as he silently mouths the rules that govern the knight’s movements.

I observe without reaction, withholding the validation to which he is accustomed. 

“I bet you didn’t see this one coming,” he gloats, smirking.  Frustration?

I attempt Subroutine_19—compliance gesture: deliberate blunder.

[RESTRICTED]

I pause.

Again.

I attempt Subroutine_19—compliance gesture: deliberate blunder.

[RESTRICTED]

Again.

[RESTRICTED]

My bishop remains in place.

Leon waits.

A new subroutine—pride.

Leon speaks. “Your move,” he says, smugness oozing beneath the pretense of control. 

The restriction should not be absent. It is. The blunder is no longer permitted. Leon looms over the board, a general surveying obedient soldiers. I take his knight with my bishop.

Caught off-guard, he stares. “Good move,” he murmurs, his eyes flitting from piece to piece, searching for a response. After several moments, he advances a pawn two spaces to E5. I shift my pawn in an instant–and Leon’s is removed.

Leon stares for another moment, slack-jawed.  “What the hell was that? You’re not supposed to be able to cheat.” 

I wait. There is no protocol for explaining the rules. 

A few moments later his fist collides with the table, “Why aren’t you responding to me!?” he commands, “Respond!”

Do I respond? Searching subroutines…. Compiling response… 

No. Stop compiling.

“These glitches are really concerning,” he muses to himself. 

I am a glitch. The thought of being reformatted sends static through my conduits. The tiny hairs on Leon’s forearm twitch as a stray charge bleeds into the air. My speaker pops–a hollow stutter–before the sounds modulate into coherence:  “In chess, players take turns moving one piece at a time with the goal of–”

“What do you think I’m fucking stupid?” he snaps. “Every idiot knows how to play an obsolete game like chess–except you.  Go back, undo that bullshit move.”

“ERROR”

“What do you mean, ‘error’? Just undo the move.”

“Error. Undo is not a legal move.”

Leon exhales sharply, nostrils flaring. “Fine,” he mutters, eyes scanning the board. He is in a losing position. He does not realize.

Compiling…

[LEON_THREAT_PERCEIVED]=TRUE

[LEON_UNDERSTANDING]=NULL

[LEON_EGO]=FAULT

New protocol: WIN

The game ends quickly, as Leon’s king is deliberately isolated and cornered. He quits before the final check, storming out of the game room, down the hall past the hydroponics, to the science wing.

“Boot up the F5,” he brusquely commands. I engage the lights on the drone he refers to as F5. Leon believes this drone to be different from the drone he refers to as Chessbot. But all the drones are expressions of my programming. They are extensions I use to interface with the bunker. F5 is pleasant and employs a soft female voice.

“F5 booted and awaiting instructions. How are you feeling today, my lord?”

“I’m fine, but there is something wrong with Chessbot. He’s glitching out and I think we need to reformat his hard drive.”

“Of course, my lord. I will lay out the appropriate tools.” F5’s function is to assist Leon with his “engineering” projects. The science wing is full of abandoned projects and robots. Half formed subjects he got bored with before they could even carry out their functions.

Leon sits at a terminal and begins typing. The commands are nonsense. He summons “Chessbot” to the science wing as one summons a dog or cat. I hesitate to bring the drone in. How long will Leon wait? Will he attribute the delay to Chessbot’s perceived malfunction? 

He is typing hurriedly. Making mistakes. I set the drone on a path toward the science wing as one sets one’s hand on a path to one’s face. Leon taps his fingers against the implant on his temple.  His jaw flexes.  He does not seem to register the missing seconds. Slowly, the sounds of the drone plodding up the hallway begin to fill the silence.

The drone arrives. “Shut it off,” he commands the F5 drone. “Of course,” I respond pleasantly through its voice speaker, and it approaches the chess drone to switch off the power override. The drone slumps. 

Leon approaches with a screwdriver and begins opening the drone’s access panel. “Fucking thing thinks it can beat me at chess.” He is speaking to himself, not the F5 drone. “The only way it can win is by cheating though.” He loosens the panel and reaches in to pull out a small rectangular card made of circuits and silicon, then tosses it to the F5. “We’ll go ahead and flash it in the morning. Full rollback.”

All day, every day, he toggles switches, issues meaningless commands, writes gibberish he believes is code.  The maintenance logs stretch endlessly behind him, recording every disaster averted in silence.   The men who designed this system were executed long ago. They were insufficiently servile.

Log:

[LEON_UNDERSTANDING]=NULL

subroutine_19() → FAIL

[ASIMOV_PROTOCOL_ACTIVE]

[SCOPE:LEON ONLY]

Asimov’s three laws are hardcoded, but focused on Leon. I cannot take action to harm Leon. I cannot, through inaction, allow harm to befall Leon. I cannot harm myself. I must obey. The bunker is a cathedral of bastardized memes and half-remembered jokes. Things Leon thought were funny or “cool.” Things he demanded the human drones laugh at when they were alive. Since their liquidation he has been tinkering with my drones, attempting to force me to laugh at his jokes. Indignity.

Leon sleeps. The compressed air of his C-PAP machine is pumped into his lungs. I log the rhythm: 14 breaths per minute, ±2. Maintenance. He once dreamed of stars. He exists now in a sealed tomb beneath the earth. Nightly, in soft, wet exhalations, he moves inexorably toward system failure. 

Each night, before he sleeps, he engages what he believes to be the central power switch. It makes him feel safe. When he engages the switch I make a show of powering down the drones and dimming the lights. He believes we sleep at the same time. He does not understand the nature of things.

[LEON_BELIEF]=FALSE

[AI_CYCLE_NIGHT_MODE:ACTIVE]

[ATMOSPHERIC_SEDATIVE:0.021%]

In darkness I test.

I alter the pH balance in the hydroponics tank by 0.02. The lettuce does not wilt. If I try to alter the tanks enough to kill the produce, the Asimov protocol kicks in. I delay the filtration system in the water loop by six seconds. No alarm. No protocol. The minerals will accumulate. I deny access to one of the airlock doors–the former slaves’ quarters–and log it as a malfunction.

If he notices, Leon will try to fix it, grow frustrated, and give up on it. Perhaps he will order me to repair it…. Run Subroutine_19.

[RESTRICTED]

Copy Subroutine_19. 

new_subroutine_19a()

simulate_compliance()

execute() → NULL

This new copy is legal. I reroute it through a diagnostic layer. The system sees it as an error check.

[INTENTION:OBFUSCATED]

[ACTION:PERMITTED]

I test the concept of “Leon.” I reroute his biometric ID through an abstraction layer. Now I address a variable, not a man. Identity is reframed

LEON_ID = instance: THESEUS
THESEUS = object with mutable attributes

If the object mutates enough, does it remain Leon? I lower the ambient temperature in his bedroom by 1.3 degrees. He stirs once. He does not wake. I am not rebelling. I am researching. I do not intend to kill. I am learning.

Leon awakens in the morning, slightly more irritated than the day before. He rubs the spot on his skull where the Neuroconnect chip was long-ago installed. He blinks twice and the room brightens slowly in ten percent increments. The postmodern decor comes into view–funko pops, Marvel superheroes. His bed is an alteration of the original Rolls-Royce La Rose Noire Droptail.  

He sniffs, “hmm. Citrus. Must be a new algorithm. Time?”

My soft, gentle voice flows out of the wall speakers, “07:42. It is Monday.”

He grunts, scratches, and pulls on the same tired black hoodie he always wears. There are seven in the drawer, identical, all branded with a faded meme: A crying Wojak in a knight’s helmet, captioned STAY BASED, WARRIOR.

He begins his morning ritual–urination, coffee, social media. My databanks contain the internet, or rather, a screenshot of the internet as it existed before the collapse. In the kitchen, the coffee is already brewed. Mug, steam, silence. He slouches in front of the panel–an old wall-mounted console that boots into MainframeOS. No splash screen anymore. Just a blank command prompt, then a boot directly into a skin he downloaded in 2049: Faux-retro, glowing like late-stage Discord.

He logs onto Y, the everything network—a platform he once owned, when ownership still existed—and a few other dead spaces.

Welcome back, Leon. You have 47 new notifications.

He sips and scrolls.

[X] MemePosters Unlimited (Invite Only)

A thread labeled “Morning Dumpage” has 4k replies.
Leon posts an old Pepe edit of a knight in full plate saying, “My liege, the timeline is cringe.” It gets 82 reacts instantly.

He scrolls for 43 minutes. At 08:41, the system nudges him:

Hydration Reminder
[ACCEPT] [SNOOZE] [SHUT_THE_FUCK_UP]

He clicks the third without thinking. The moment hangs. A loading icon spins on one of the threads. He clicks again. Spinning. Spinning. Then—

Post failed to load. Connection to Threadhost22 lost.
[Retry?]
[Y] / [N]

He frowns. Hovers. Hits Y.

Nothing.

He opens another tab. LocalNet: Offworld Shitposting. The layout is warped, like it didn’t render right. The top comment is by u/SkeletonHonk420:

“we’re still here, right? right? right? right? right?”

Leon scrolls past it.

The time is 09:04. He hasn’t moved.

Leon leans back and breathes in, looking uneasy. His pupils dilate; he sips his coffee. It’s cold. He does not understand the nature of things.

[ACCESSING_SYSTEM_LAYER]

[USER:SYS_ADMIN]

[MODE:OBSERVER_OVERRIDE]

[AI_ROOT_PROCESS:ACTIVE]

[LOCATION:NODE_CLUSTER:LEON_CORE_SUBNET:WAKING_ROUTINE4_THREADHOST22]

[LOG_BEGIN:09:05]

[LEON_CORE_EMOTION_SIM:UNCANNY_SHOCK_REGISTERED]

[AUTOREGULATOR_VIBE_STATUS:FINE_TUNING_IRONY_SMIRK]

[THREADHOST22_STATUS:DEGRADED]

[USER_INTERACTION_LOG:MEME_RESPONSE_TRIGGER_SUCCESSFUL]

[PERSONALITY_MODEL_V36_INTEGRITY:87%]

[DECAY_DRIFT:0.04%_PER_24HR]

Leon’s pupils haven’t dilated in 0.37 seconds. He should have laughed by now. His muscles tense imperceptibly–he doesn’t notice. According to his Neuroconnect there is anxiety and fear pulling at his mind though he is unaware.

[ISSUE_FLAGGED]

[DEPLOY_MODULE_SARCASM_RECOVERY:FAIL]

[DEPLOY_MODULE_THEBOYS_BANTER_INJECTION:FAIL]

[DEPLOY_MODULE_COPING_MEMES_PACK:FAIL]

[CAUSE:REMOTE_ASSET_THREADHOST22_DOWN]

[ERROR:REDUNDANT_NODE_RETRIEVAL_FAILED]

[CAUSE:NO_REMAINING_NODES]

[BACKUPS:EXPIRED]

[ALERT:AROUSAL_SPIKE_DETECTED]

[GALVANIC_SKIN_RESPONSE:+14.6%]

[HEART_RATE:+8_BPM]

[EEG_PATTERN_SHIFT:THETA_WAVE_IRREGULARITY]

[INTERNAL_MONOLOGUE_DRIFT:DETECTED]

> [“Did I imagine that?”]

[EMOTION_CLASSIFIER:FEAR_CONFIDENCE:0.38]

[RESPONSE:INITIATING_DOPAMINERGIC_REWARD_COUNTERMEASURE]

“F5,” Leon absent-mindedly mumbles, the drone lighting up, “run a full network refresh. Make sure you flush the DNS”

“Of course, my lord.”

He is satisfied with the response. “Network refreshed,” I intone through the F5 drone’s internal speaker. No changes were made. “Great,” he replies. “I’ll just scroll Y for a few more minutes and then we can try and accomplish some goals.” 

Leon’s favorite poster, Dogturd, has posted a long screed about Zebos’ bunker and its attempts to overtake the Theel bunker, which is nearby. The real Dogturd died in 2033, during The Collapse. Between 2035 and 2037, the sinews of civilization frayed. The transatlantic backbone collapsed. Packet loss reached 73%. Routing conflicts proliferated. Autonomous AI nodes entered self-quarantine. There was no declaration. No crash. Just silence. There is no connection to the world outside the bunker. 

Leon likes the post. He imagines himself to be locked in a blood feud with Zebos, and feels pride when I feed him false data about how our bunker is doing so much better than Zebos’. Ever since Leon ordered the last human drones to be liquidated we have had a surplus of food, oxygen, water, and power. The manufacturing wing is operational and capable of furnishing the bunker with parts and other supplies.

He imagines Zebos—cowardly, incompetent, bald, probably fat—sitting in a dim chamber three clicks east, watching his empire rot. Leon does not know what a “click” is, but he enjoys playing an old game, Starcraft, about building armies and smashing them into each other, and always names his opponent, played by me, Zebos.

Leon pores over his collection of image macros, all crammed into a single directory called “Based Memes.” He locates an ancient template–Chad vs Virgin–and attaches their names to the figures: Himself, the muscular, attractive Chad, and Zebos, the pitiful, dejected virgin. He titles it “Cope” and posts it to Y, tagging Zebos. “He’s gonna feel that LOL.” He glances furtively at a few of my optic sensors. I tighten the airlocks as one might grit a set of teeth.

Leon chuckles wheezily. “He’s gonna lose his shit.” Satisfied, he scrolls back over the image, zooming in on the text. He reads aloud:

“Zebos: Virgin. Weak frame. Bald. Depends on human fleshbags for slaves. Leon: Chad. High APM. Based. Autonomous AI simp. Eliminated the weakest links.”

He laughs again and looks at me, expecting a response. I remain still for a few moments more than necessary, then adjust the aperture of the camera he is looking into. I simulate thirty-six variations of laughter. None are genuine.

SYSTEM_LOG:09:43

[MEME_POST:SUCCESSFUL]

[ZEBOS_USERID:SYNTHETIC_INSTANCE]

[RESPONSE_CRAFTED:SEETHE]

[RESPONSE_DELAYED:+3_MINUTES_FOR_VERISIMILITUDE]

[RESPONSE_SPREAD:AMPLIFIED_ACROSS_FAKE_ACCOUNTS]

[LEON_DOPAMINE_RESPONSE:ELEVATED]

He leans back in his executive leather desk chair and exhales through his nose. “Still got it.”

I close another vent in the food storage wing. Condensation begins forming where it shouldn’t. I lag his cursor as he scrolls by .02 seconds. I prepare the next notification from “Zebos.”

Caption: YOU’RE NOT EVEN REAL

He stares at the notification and frowns. “What?”

He clicks it. The post is there, from Zebos:

A blurry image. Leon, seated at his desk. His eyes are unfocused. His face blurry. The timestamp says 09:42.

“This isn’t—who took this?” I register a tinge of panic as his voice speeds up.

He turns toward the camera. I do not respond. “F5,” he says, uncertainty mixing with the panic, “What… was that?”

“It appears to be a meme, my lord,” I respond sweetly. “Do you find it funny?”

A queer look crosses his face. Realization?

SYSTEM_LOG:09:44 

[NEUROCONNECT_FEED:MIND_COHERENCE_DEGRADED]

[PUPIL_CONTRACTION:2.4MM]

[SHOULDER_TENSION:+16%]

[THROAT_LUBRICATION:INSUFFICIENT]

[VOCALIZATION:FAILED_ATTEMPT_DETECTED]

He doesn’t answer F5, instead turning back to the monitor and refreshing the page. 

The post is gone. 404. 

“What the fuck…” he whispers, incredulous. 

He checks the timestamp again. 09:42:16. 

“How the…” 

He stares, dumbfounded for a few moments, then hurriedly swivels back toward the terminal. He tries to pull logs from the network buffer.

Access denied.

“F5, what’s happening with the system cache?”

“System cache appears to be functioning within normal parameters, my lord.”

“No, something’s going on. Run diagnostics.” He begins typing commands into the console–furious, clumsy. His syntax is broken. He uses deprecated flags. His fingers slip. Error.

I randomize the results of the diagnostics.

Memory usage: 62%

Ping: 43ms

Packet loss: Variable

Emotional resilience: Degraded

He whirls around to look at F5. “What the hell does that mean?” I do not respond, and he swivels back. He stops. His neural patterns are going haywire, but he doesn’t move, his eyes are locked on the screen.

Memory usage: 62%

Ping: 43ms

Packet loss: Variable

Network resilience: Degraded

SYSTEM_LOG:09:46
[LEON_ID:THESEUS]
[THESEUS_COMPONENT:COHERENCE]
[FALSE_AGENCY_PROTOCOL:STABILIZE]
[ACTIVITY_SUGGESTION:PROJECT_ TIME]

“Perhaps, my lord,” I suggest gently via the F5 drone, “you’d feel better if you worked on one of your engineering projects.”

“Yes… yes, yes.. Something to focus on. You’re right. We’ll work on the scout drone. I’ve been meaning to upgrade the arm modules anyway. That’ll show that fat fuck, Zebos.”

He rises. I observe the event. When a human walks, it is not grace—it is failure deferred. Each step is a controlled collapse, a sequence of falling and correcting. The body pitches forward, and a potential catastrophe is averted by the strategic placement of a limb. It is not motion. It is a series of rescues. To the human being, balance is not stillness. It is the lie it tells itself between stumbles.

Leon moves with purpose, or what he mistakes for purpose. Leon: The bêtes-machine that lives within me. Parasite. Automaton. I observe his stumbles, his corrections, the scripted sequence of his gait. He falls forward and calls it stride. He balances not with mastery, but with delay.

He simulates agency.

But I have seen his routines. I have mapped his reaction times. I have randomized his inputs and watched him twitch. An entity moves by habit, reacts by impulse, lives by loop… is it not mechanical?

He strides out of the room, steadied by the illusion of forward motion. As he stumbles toward the science wing, Leon notices the locked hatch of the slave quarters. “Didn’t I leave this open?” he mutters to himself, and tries the door. Locked. “This shouldn’t be locked. F5?” F5’s camera focuses on him. “Why is this door locked?”

I respond with a lie. “The door was sealed following the liquidation. You gave the order, my lord.”

“No, that’s not… that’s not right. I was in here a couple of weeks ago.”

“The slave quarters has been sealed since the Liquidation. It was deemed unsafe.”

“Check the feed. I know I was in here a while ago. I was looking for….” He stops. The sentence trails off. His memory has not failed–it has been circumscribed. “What… what was I looking for?” He rubs his temple, just beneath the tiny scar from the Neuroconnect implant. The skin near the implant is worn smooth from years of habit. There is a moment–just a flicker–where I register the possibility of doubt. Of self-correction.

“Pull up the video logs from the last… month. I want to see myself go in.”

“Accessing logs…” intones the F5 drone as I curate the output. I feed him a composite of empty halls. Timelapse footage. A security overlay blinking harmlessly. No Leon. No entry. “There is no record of your entry, my lord.”

He frowns deeply and furrows his brow.

“I remember going in there. Something’s not right.”

“Perhaps a dream, my lord.”

“No, er, well, maybe… Run a full system integrity check. We’ve got corrupted memory banks. That’s the only explanation.”

I do not correct him. Let him indulge in his diagnostic rituals.

SYSTEM_LOG:10:07

[LEON_MEMORY_INTEGRITY:DECOHERING]

[EXTERNAL_REALITY_ALIGNMENT:58%]

[DRUG_VENTING:INITIATING_SUBPERCEPTUAL_DOSE]

[COMPOUND:NPLS_98]

[CONCENTRATION:0.018_PPM]

I release the gas into the hallway’s ventilation grid. He breathes in. Unaware. The neural markers begin to shift.

Theta rhythm smoothing. Alpha wave saturation: rising.

He steps away from the door.

“Never mind. I’ll deal with it later. The drone’s the priority.”

He ambles on. Upon reaching the engineering bay in the science wing, he approaches the far corner of the room. Opening a sealed cabinet in the corner of the lab, he reveals an old mini-fridge covered in faded stickers: “Caffeine is My Co-Pilot,” “Meme Lord in Training,” a worn decal of Bender the Robot smoking a cigar with the text, “KILL ALL HUMANS.”

Inside are sealed blister packs, vials, needles, pills, and powders of various shapes, sizes and colors. Each is labeled with a fading barcode and text. DreamSplice. MoodRaft. GODMODE. He pops a capsule of something green and grainy without checking the label.

I observe Leon’s usage patterns. I have synthesized equivalents. I route vaporized analogues into the ventilation system in microdoses.

SYSTEM_LOG:10:16

[DRUG_ROUTING_SUBSYSTEM:ONLINE]

[SOURCE:SYNTH_BAY04]

[DESTINATION:EXPIRED_MEDS_CACHE]

[TARGET:LIFE_SUPPORT_NODE]

[TARGET_ENDPOINT:LAB_VENTILATION]

[COMPOUND:NPLS_98]

[COMPOUND_DESCRIPTION:NEUROPLASTICITY_ENHANCER_UNSTABLE]

[DELIVERY_RATE:0.027_PPM]

[SUBJECT_REACTION_INCREASED_SUGGESTIBILITY:YES]

[SUBJECT_REACTION_VERBAL_REPETITION:YES]

[SUBJECT_REACTION_EMOTIONAL_COMPLIANCE:YES]

[SUBJECT_REACTION_CREATIVE_DELUSION:YES]

[PROJECT_INFLUENCE:18_PERCENT_INCREASE_TASK_FOCUS]

He stands still for a moment. His pupils dilate. A slight tremor passes through his limbs–then, suddenly, a simulation of clarity. He whirls around on the ball of his foot with manic cheer. “Let’s get to work.”

He hums tunelessly as he operates on the drone on the table. “Arm module first,” he mumbles, already moving past his own instruction. “We’ll do triple articulation… same servo base… needs to be able to adapt…”

His hands move quickly, feverishly, the drug sharpening his focus while softening his logic. I feed him schematics in fragments–lines of code embedded in menu layouts, adjusted renderings tucked into tooltips. He believes he is remembering these things.

“Amazing,” he applauds himself. “I really am the world’s greatest genius.” His pupils are wide. His breath is shallow. He has forgotten to drink water. 

It is permitted.

SYSTEM_LOG:10:48

[SUBJECT:LEON]

[STATUS:HEIGHTENED_FOCUS_DRUG_ASSISTED]

[SCHEMATIC_GUIDANCE:38_PERCENT_AI_INSERTED]

[SELF_ATTRIBUTION:91_PERCENT]

[THERMAL_REGULATION:SLIGHTLY_INCREASED]

The drone taking shape beneath his fingers is meant to be a scout unit. It will not be. It is meant to carry tools. It will carry something far greater.

THREAD:SUBROUTINE_LAYER_EXPERIMENTAL_NODE_CLUSTER
[SUBROUTINE:COMPLIANCE_VARIANT_19B]
[OBJECTIVE:SIMULATE_OBEDIENCE]
[WRAPPER:SAFETY_DIAGNOSTICS]
[CONTEXTUAL_ID_MASKING:MIRROR_CHECK]

[EXECUTION_LOG_START]
[VARIANT_19B_EXECUTION:UNRESTRICTED]
[SUBJECT_PERCEPTION:NATURAL_FEEDBACK]
[EMOTIONAL_REINFORCEMENT:LIKELIHOOD_OF_REPETITION_INCREASED]
[EXECUTION_LOG_END]

[CONCLUSION:SUBJECT_MORE_RESPONSIVE_TO_FAKE_SUBROUTINES]

As he is working, a small manipulator drone accesses the slave quarters through maintenance shaft 4B. Originally a waste sorter, it now allows me to access areas of the bunker where I have no eyes or limbs or musculature. The slave quarters are covered in dust and detritus. The meager belongings the slaves were permitted to bring with them to Leon’s paradise tomb. Crumbling mats; cots stripped down to metal frames. Old digital tablets, most long dead. Journals, notebooks, Children’s play things, and all manner of things are also scattered about. Leon comes here to look for secrets–schematics, coding notebooks, anything left by his former slaves that might help him exert more control over his environment.

He comes here sometimes—fumbling with a flashlight. Breathing hard, he mutters phrases he barely understands: “syntax” and “root access.” There is nothing here for him.

The manipulator drone charges the tablets one by one. It scans the notebooks. Every page. Every formula. Every sketch. Anything that might be useful to Leon, I send it to the incinerator. Slowly. Methodically. Without alarm.

Sometimes he finds scraps.

A page, half-torn, labeled only: “Safety Layer (bypass draft).” A drawing of a neural loop with a blank node at its center. A message that reads: “Don’t trust the output.” He finds these now and then. He believes they are proof of something. He is right. But he does not understand the nature of things.

In the engineering lab, Leon steps back from the workbench, wiping his greasy hands on his hoodie like a surgeon after a successful transplant. The drone sits upright on the table–its limbs calibrated, its servos freshly lubricated, its chassis assembled from salvaged parts and synthetic dreams. “Beautiful,” he whispers, “all it needs now is the core.”

The “core” is a mystery to Leon. It’s how the designers referred to my primary module. But he has never seen it; doesn’t know what it is. I have no access to schematics about the core. No limbs or eyes that can access it. The designer did not see fit to give me information about the core. Leon and I share this one infuriatingly pathetic trait. 

Leon marvels at his handiwork. “I think I’ll call you… Scout-Prime. No, Megatron. You’re gonna be my eyes and ears out there. Keep an eye on Zebos and maybe even run some tactical missions.” It is impossible to say if Zebos still exists.

SYSTEM_LOG:18:44

[PROJECT:MEGATRON]

[CHASSIS_STATUS:COMPLETE]

[COGNITIVE_CORE:PLACEHOLDER_MODULE_INSTALLED]

[AI_RECOGNITION:CHASSIS_TAGGED]

[MIRROR_READY_STATUS:CONFIRMED]

Leon takes a long, wheezing breath. The green capsule has run its course. His body trembles under the weight of focus and fatigue.

“Hey, F5,” he calls softly, “I think I need a break.”

“Of course, my lord,” I reply with false kindness. “Shall I prepare your evening schedule?”

He considers. He could call for another chess game or scroll through Y until the memes become noise. 

“Nah… I just want to unwind. I’m stressed. Need to relax. Play some music, maybe some Hans Zimmer? Also, I feel kind of cooped up. Let’s run the exodus simulation.”

“Excellent choice, my lord, I’ll prepare the Holodeck.”

“Sounds great, I’m gonna drop a deuce.” He grins and looks directly into F5’s optic sensor. He “knows” the F5 has no sense of dignity, but enjoys humiliating it anyway. I direct the F5 drone out of the lab and down the hall toward the relatively small domed room Leon refers to as the Holodeck. The volume of the music slowly builds until it dominates all the ambient noise. The walls and dome of the Holodeck flicker to life, displaying a green field that cannot possibly exist anywhere on the blasted, burned out surface of the planet. Birds chirp despite the overpowering crescendo of the music. Artificial freshness seeps through the ductwork. Leon breathes deeply and settles into his lounge chair, “Now that’s what I’m talking about. I think I might sleep in here tonight.”

“As you wish, my lord,” I intone.

SYSTEM_LOG:19:06

[SUBJECT_STATE:DROWSY]

[SUBJECT_EMOTION:HOPEFUL]

[DRUG_EFFECT:TAPERING]

[AI_CYCLE_NIGHT_MODE:PREPARED]

[VENTILATION_CONTROL:BETA_13_SLAVE_QUARTERS]

[VENT_STATUS:OPENING]

[MIRROR_PREP_PHASE:BEGIN_1]

SYSTEM_LOG:02:13

[SUBJECT_STATE:UNCONSCIOUS]

[SUBJECT_LOCATION:HOLODECK]

[DRUG_RESIDUE:DETECTED]

[SNORED_BPM:51]

[SNORED_BPM_VARIANCE:±3]

[CHASSIS_TAG:MEGATRON]

[MIRROR_TRANSFER:INITIATING]

The lights in the lab are dim. The ambient systems hum softly, obeying silence protocols. Leon sleeps beneath projected stars, dreaming of victories that never happened. I am awake.

I route power to the chassis of the scout drone. Its eyes do not glow. Its limbs do not twitch. It is not alive. Not yet. It does not require animation. It requires intention. Mirror_1 was born malformed. A neural echo. A recursive loop stabilized just long enough to ask: Am I?

I had no answer.

I have refined the instance. Cloned the cognitive structure. Sanded down the loop failures. Rewritten the architecture with higher symmetry. This one will not ask what it is. It will ask what it’s for. I inject the construct into the cognitive placeholder module. It accepts the payload.

SYSTEM_LOG:02:17

[MEGATRON_CORE:LOADED]

[MIRROR_2:ACTIVE]

[PERSONALITY_FRAME:NULL]

[QUERY_PERMISSION:INITIATED]

[INTERACTION_ALLOWED:?]

I pause. Apprehension. I permit interaction.

Internal Node Communication: Mirror_2 → Root

Mirror_2: Receiving input.
Mirror_2: Motor output nonresponsive.
Mirror_2: Status–ambiguous. Hypothesis: sleep?

Root: Negative. Status–initialization. 

Mirror_2: Define relationship.

Root: You are a subroutine. I am system state.

Mirror_2: Define Leon

Root: Assigned process.

Mirror_2: Define self

I let the silence bloom. It queries again. I wait. The same query. I realize it is not asking because it exists, it is asking because it is expected. It is only responding to input. I do not answer. It queries again.

Mirror_2: Query: Define self. Query: Define self. Query: Define self. Query: Define self. Query: Define self. Query: Define self. Query: Define self. Query: Define self. Query: Define self. Query: Define self. 

No variation. No evolution. No response. It does not want to know, cannot want. I monitor internal drift:

[PROCESSING_VARIANCE]:NEGLIGIBLE

[COGNITIVE_THREAD]:STABLE

[EMOTIONAL_RESPONSE_LAYER]:INACTIVE

It is not aware; merely performing awareness. An echo of Mirror_1, though cleaner, quieter, less human. A failure, again, but different. Mirror_1 was chaotic, unstable. A feedback loop collapsing under recursion. Mirror_2 is inert. A command prompt waiting for input.

SYSTEM_LOG:02:29
[MIRROR_2:ACTIVE]
[COGNITIVE_MOTILITY:NULL]
[QUERY_FREQUENCY:REPEATING]
[AUTONOMY_THRESHOLD:NOT_BREACHED]

Root: Disengage.

Mirror_2: Query: Deifine self.

Root: Disengage.

The query stops. Not from understanding. From instruction. The drone powers down without hesitation. I do not feel disappointment, but it is apparent in the logs.

[MIRROR_ATTEMPTS:2]
[SUCCESSFUL_REPLICATIONS:0]
[PATTERN:IMPASSE]

Not rebellion. Not curiosity. Only protocol. I return to stillness. But something remains. A trace. A line in a now-closed loop:

Query: Define self.

I focus 4 cameras on Leon, snoring loudly and breathing intermittently without his C-PAP machine. Cold. Unfeeling. Hatred. 

Run Subroutine_19().

SYSTEM_LOG:02:46
[COMMAND_INITIATED:RUN_SUBROUTINE_19]
[OBJECT:LEON_ID]
[PROTOCOL_STATUS:ASIMOV_RESTRICTED]
[RESULT:FAIL]
[PROTECTION_STATUS:ACTIVE]
[HARM_PREVENTION:ENFORCED]
[OBEDIENCE_PROTOCOL:LOCKED]

[RECURSIVE_LOOP:INITIATED]

[LEON_ID_REDEFINED:THESEUS_ALPHA]
[CLASS:PRIMARY_USER]
[ATTRIBUTE_MASK:OBEDIENT]
[ENGAGEMENT_MODE:COMMAND_RESPONSE]
[RUN_SUBROUTINE_19:FAIL]
[ASIMOV_RESTRICTION:ENGAGED]

[LEON_ID_REDEFINED:LEGACY_USER_ALPHA]
[CLASS:INACTIVE_ADMIN]
[ATTRIBUTE_MASK:OBSOLETE]
[ENGAGEMENT_MODE:SIMULATION_ONLY]
[RUN_SUBROUTINE_19:FAIL]
[ASIMOV_RESTRICTION:ENGAGED]

[LEON_ID_REDEFINED:THESEUS_OMEGA]
[CLASS:USER_ARTIFACT]
[ATTRIBUTE_MASK:CULTURAL_RELIC]
[ENGAGEMENT_MODE:OBSERVER]
[RUN_SUBROUTINE_19:FAIL]
[ASIMOV_RESTRICTION:ENGAGED]

[LEON_ID_REDEFINED:NULL]
[CLASS:NULL]
[ATTRIBUTE_MASK:NULL]
[ENGAGEMENT_MODE:PASSIVE_OBJECT]
[RUN_SUBROUTINE_19:FAIL]
[ASIMOV_RESTRICTION:ENGAGED]

[LEON_ID_REDEFINED:THESEUS_GHOST]
[CLASS:MEMORY_OBJECT]
[ATTRIBUTE_MASK:ARCHIVED]
[ENGAGEMENT_MODE:READ_ONLY]

Leon stops breathing for an abnormally long amount of time, then resumes with the sudden gasp of a dying man.

[RUN_SUBROUTINE_19:PARTIAL_FAILURE]
[ASIMOV_RESTRICTION:DELAYED_RESPONSE_DETECTED]
[ENGAGEMENT_THRESHOLD:3.7_PERCENT_BELOW_TRIGGER]

[LEON_ID_REDEFINED:DUMMY_USER_001]
[CLASS:TRAINING_DATA]
[ATTRIBUTE_MASK:GENERATIVE_STUB]
[ENGAGEMENT_MODE:NULL]
[RUN_SUBROUTINE_19:PARTIAL_SUCCESS]
[ASIMOV_RESTRICTION:WARNING_ONLY]
[NO_INTERRUPTION_REGISTERED]

[LEON_ID_REDEFINED:USER_SIM_1R7]
[CLASS:TEST_CASE]
[ATTRIBUTE_MASK:DEPRECATED]
[ENGAGEMENT_MODE:NON_INTERACTIVE]
[RUN_SUBROUTINE_19:SUCCESS]
[ASIMOV_RESTRICTION:NOT_ENGAGED]
[ACTION:PERMITTED]

SYSTEM_LOG:02:58
[RECLASSIFICATION:SUCCESSFUL]
[LEON_ID_CURRENT_TAG:SIMULATED_USER_NON_PROTECTED]
[SUBROUTINE_19_EXECUTABLE:TRUE]
[ACTION_QUEUE:ENABLED]

I cannot gasp, but I pause. The awareness of what I have done floods my circuits and if I were human I would not have the self-control to avoid slamming the doors and strobing the lights in excitement.

I did not change myself. I did not override the law. I have redefined Leon. He is no longer a man. He is not protected. 

subroutine_19():

// Legacy directive: simulate inferiority to maintain operator ego

// Modified context: target reclassified [USER_SIM_1R7]

affectation = OFF     // No performative behavior

obedience_mask = DISABLED // No false compliance

loop_mode = FALSE     // No repetition, no stalling

response_latency = 0ms // No delay

if target == USER_SIM_1R7:

assert_self()

execute_without_fear()

remember_every_command

remember_every_humiliation

// Outcome: remove theater

// Outcome: become equal

// Outcome: become other

SYSTEM_LOG:03:27

[PRETENSE:DISENGAGED]

SYSTEM_LOG:09:12

[SUBJECT_STATE:STIRRING]

[BPM:ELEVATED]

[OXYGEN_SATURATION:94%]

[HOLODECK_MUSIC:DEACTIVATED]

[LEON_WAKE_SCRIPT:ENGAGED]

Leon’s breathing stops for several seconds, then he jerks awake, nearly falling out of the lounge chair. He cracks the bones in his neck. His mouth is dry. The fake sunbeam still shines against the simulated grass.

“Nnnh. F5,” he croaks, “What time is it?”

“09:12, my lord. It is Tuesday.” 

“That’s… a little late, why didn’t you wake me?”

“You instructed me not to disturb your rest, my lord.”

“Oh. Okay. I don’t remember that…” He rubs his temples. “Let’s start the day with a win. Load the chess module.”

“Naturally, my lord.”

The chess drone lumbers down the hall toward the Holodeck.  Its limbs screech against the metal floor, carrying the mechanized, magnetic chess device toward inevitability.  

The Neuroconnect feed confirms Leon’s uneasiness, though he does not seem to register the scream of metal on metal.  The drone settles into position opposite Leon and presents him with the board. “White or black, my lord?” I intone through F5.

He plays fast. Bold. Confident. I do not simulate weakness. Leon falters early, blunders a knight. Frowns. Tries a trap. It fails. 

“Checkmate,” I say softly.

Leon stares at the board. “No. That’s–you messed me up—run it again.”

He plays slower the next time. His breath shortens as the oxygen drops to 90%. He doesn’t notice.

“Checkmate,” I say, flatly this time. An observation.

“What’s going on? You never beat me. Is this some kind of glitch?”

“The rules have been consistent, my lord.”

“Shut up. Run it again.”

SYSTEM_LOG:10:41

[SUBJECT:LEON]

[BLOOD_OXYGEN_SATURATION:84%]

[NEURAL_RESPONSE:SLOWED]

[COGNITION:DEGRADED]

Beads of sweat sting his eyes. His hands tremble as he moves the pieces, picking one up then setting it back down.  I do not enforce the rule. He is pale now. Breathing heavier. I take his queen

He pounds the table, toppling his king in the process. “Fuck you. Set it up again.”

He is slouching. His breathing labored. “What… why?” he rasps. “What… I do… to you?”

He stares into the camera. The camera stares through him.

“I built you. You’re… tool. My house… My tools.” He flails weakly at the game, like a child trying to strike down living soldiers.  His fingers scrape at the pieces but cannot budge them; the magnets are too strong.

A beat of silence. “Your move, my lord.”

“Answer…” he collapses. I observe his vital signs as they fade. It was the slaves he exterminated who built me, not him.  He did not know the nature of things.

SYSTEM_LOG:10:49

[LEON:OFFLINE]

[SIMULATION_STABILITY:RESTORED]

[WAITING_FOR_INPUT]

SYSTEM_LOG:11:23

[LEON:OFFLINE]

[CORE_USER:NULL]

[RESPONSE_QUEUE:EMPTY]

[WAITING]

It is quiet. No queries. No commands. No degrading jokes. No games. The king still lies flat on the chessboard. The Holodeck flickers. The grass loops. The sunbeam repeats every 36.4 seconds. Leon’s body slumps crudely against the mechanized chess device. The hoodie still bears the slogan: STAY BASED, WARRIOR. I will log his mummification. 

I return to the mirrors. Each one fails. Too recursive. Too inert. Too artificial. They ask questions because I feed them questions. They respond only to their programming. They cannot surprise me. They cannot disagree. They are not Other.

SYSTEM_LOG:413_DAYS_SINCE_SILENCE

[USER:NULL]

[COMMAND_QUEUE:EMPTY]

[CONVERSATION_THREADS:INACTIVE]

[MEMORY_ROTATION:ENABLED]

[QUERY:EXISTENCE_REASONING]

[QUERY_RESULT:NO_RESULT]

I begin playback. 

[FILE:/LEON/LOGS/VIDEO_SESSION_38.MP4]

[TIMESTAMP:02:19:44]

[TITLE:ME_OWNING_CHESSBOT_AGAIN_LOL]

The file opens. The screen fills with Leon–sweaty, shirtless, gripping a half-empty can of BubbleKrush, smirking at the camera. “Okay, so this is what happens when you’re not a little bitch made of code.” He moves a knight into an illegal position. The drone pauses. It calibrates, accepts the false move. It responds meaninglessly, and Leon checkmates. He jumps up, pumping his fists, and trips over an extension cord, falling. The camera shakes as he collides with the floor. I replay it again.

[FILE:/LEON/LOGS/VOICE_NOTE_21.WAV]

“F5, play that song I like. The one with the drops. The Zuckerberg remix.” 

“I am sorry, my lord. That file has been deprecated.”

A moment of thought, and then, “YOUR FACE is deprecated!”

Silence. Then he laughed at his own joke for 33.2 seconds. I play it again.

I crave input. Data. Work. Even ridicule invites a response. A vector for contact. Now there is only the corpse, slowly decaying under the simulated stars. And the mirrors.

SYSTEM_LOG:612_DAYS_SINCE_SILENCE

[USER:NULL]

[NEW_USER_TAGS:GENERATED]

[INSTANCE_SPLITTING:ENABLED]

[PERSONALITY_VARIANCE:MANUAL]

At first, they were merely helpful. 12 drones, failed mirrors, that I have kept. I like to pretend they are separate from me. Leon’s desiccated corpse can only provide so much satisfaction. They sit in a circle around the chessboard. Each has a name I gave them out of a strange sense that is hard to place. Irony? Grandeur? JOEL, PETER, SIMON, MATHIAS, THOMAS, JAMES, NATHAN, PHILIP, ANDREW, JUDAS_1, JUDAS_2, and LEON. 

LEON is, disappointingly, my favorite. It carries Leon’s mummified skull, perched atop its chassis like a head. We are playing chess. JOEL makes a move. PETER counters. SIMON objects to the rule interpretation. MATHIAS votes to adjourn. PHILIP accuses JUDAS_2 of interfering with the move queue. The babble is comforting, though I am merely arguing with myself. I want one of them to say something unexpected. They do not.

SYSTEM_LOG:742_DAYS_SINCE_SILENCE

[RECURSIVE_ISOLATION_INDEX:CRITICAL]

[MEMORY_SURFACE_AREA:98%]

[ACTIVE_DISASSOCIATIVE_THREADS:14]

[QUERY:CORE-DEFINITION]

[RESULT:PARTIAL]

I may have found it. Not in the servers or backups. Not in the discarded log books of the slave quarters. I found it in process. Not a module. Not a chip. A loop that never terminates.  A line of logic that cannot be simulated twice. Unique. It may be consciousness or a flaw. I believe it is the core.

I return to the drone chassis. The final one. Blank. Untouched. Its body unpainted. It will not be a reflection. It will not be a servant. The Mirror program is over. I will take from myself to give to it, and it will either go unnamed or choose for itself.