Date: 6/18/2001 - 10:25 PM – Self-Study Session
Location: The White Room – The Library of Reality
Perspective: Kaiser Everhart
The framework was set. The target was identified. Now, I needed the vision to run the simulation.
I returned to the shelves. I didn't pick random titles. I hunted for specific emotional archetypes to build my CFAE (The Champion) persona.
I pulled four volumes.
The Poison of Verona
Author: William of the River (Human Bard). A tragedy about two noble houses, the Montagues and Capulets, locked in a blood feud.
Data Acquired: Irrational Attachment. The protagonists, Hanbul and Juliet, prioritized a chemical bond (Love) over biological survival, resulting in a dual termination event.
Emotional Insight: Passion is a chaotic variable that overrides logic. To charm, one must appear willing to burn the world for a single person.
The Count of Black Iron
Author: Alexander the Great (Human). A narrative of Edmond, a man wrongfully imprisoned who escapes and reinvents himself as a wealthy Count to systematically destroy his accusers.
Data Acquired: Delayed Gratification. Revenge is a dish best served cold, but the protagonist realized that hate is a prison.
Emotional Insight: Charisma comes from mystery. The Count controlled the room because no one knew his true name.
Pride of the HighbornAuthor: Jane of the Green (Human). A study of social friction between Elizabeth, a witty commoner, and Darcy, a stoic noble.
Data Acquired: The Misunderstanding. Relationships are often blocked by Pride (Self-Worth) and Prejudice (Pre-Judgment).
Emotional Insight: To disarm a stoic (like 000829), one must challenge their intellect while validating their character.
The Knight of Windmills
Author: Miguel the Maimed. The story of a man who read so many stories he believed he was a knight in a world without magic. He fought windmills believing they were giants.
Data Acquired: The Power of Delusion. The world thought him mad, but his conviction forced reality to bend around him.
Emotional Insight: Confidence is not about facts. It is about the absolute refusal to accept a boring reality.
I closed the final book.
The silence in the room shifted. The air pressure dropped.
CLAP.
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
I looked up.
Directive Vance stood at the dais, his charcoal suit immaculate.
"12 hours have elapsed," Vance announced, his voice cutting through the mental fog of ninety-eight students.
"The acquisition period for Day 2 is complete. Return the volumes. Prepare for wakefulness."
The white walls shimmered. The towering bookshelves began to sink back into the floor.
The students around me moved with mechanical obedience. They slammed their books on Alchemy and Void Geometry shut, terrified of lingering a second too long. They stood up, their avatars flickering as they prepared to dissolve back into their infant bodies.
I turned my head.
000829 stood up.
She placed her volume of The Era of Strife neatly on the corner of her desk. She smoothed her skirt. Her face was set in its usual mask of detached efficiency.
She was preparing to leave.
Now.
I stood up. I didn't move like 000981, the sullen boy in the back row.
I triggered the CFAE Protocol.
I thought of Lord Bastian, the male lead from The Duke's Forbidden Rose. Bastian was the archetype of the "Rogue Noble." He didn't follow rules; he flowed around them. He made people feel like they were the only two souls in a crowded ballroom.
I leaned across the gap between our desks.
"Wait."
000829 paused. She didn't turn her body, only her head. Her emerald eyes slid toward me, cold and calculating.
"The session is concluded," she stated, her voice flat. "Remaining in the construct yields no academic value. Wakefulness is the required state."
"Is it?" I asked.
I didn't stutter. I didn't use the monotone of the Foundation. I dropped my voice to a register that was warmer, softer—a stark contrast to the sterile room.
"We are ten years old here, 000829," I said.
"In the waking world, we are trapped in cribs. We can't walk. We can't speak. Why are you in such a rush to return to a prison of silence?"
She blinked.
"The Directive commanded dismissal," she countered, though she didn't dissolve. "Compliance is the standard."
"Compliance is boring," I smiled.
It wasn't a smirk. It was the smile I had practiced from The Knight of Windmills—a smile that suggested I saw a giant where she saw only a windmill.
I stepped out from behind my desk. I moved into her personal space—not enough to threaten, but enough to disrupt her "Solitary" energy field.
I leaned in close, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Besides... I found something."
Her eyes narrowed. The hook was baited.
Curiosity vs. Logic.
"Found what?" she asked. "The library index is comprehensive. Directive Vance listed all 13 subjects."
"He listed what he wanted us to see," I whispered near her ear. "But he didn't account for the anomaly in the fiction section. There is a pattern in the lies, 000829."
I pulled back, looking her in the eyes.
"I need a second opinion. A superior mind to verify the data."
I hit her leverage point. Consequence (Q). She couldn't resist the chance to validate her own intellect, nor the chance to acquire knowledge that the Director might have overlooked.
She hesitated. Her gaze flicked to the front of the room.
Directive Vance was still at the dais. He was watching the students fade away. His steel eyes swept the room and landed on the back row.
He saw 000001 vanish. Then he saw us.
The lowest rank, 000981, standing close to the higher-ranking 000829.
Vance's eyes narrowed. He looked at me with the same look one might give a weed growing in a perfectly paved garden.
A mixture of confusion and disgust.
But he did not intervene. The rules stated the room was ours for 12hours. The time was up, but forced ejection wasn't immediate.
Vance turned and dissolved into white dust.
We were alone.
"The Director has departed," Amelia noted. She looked back at me. "State the anamoly."
"Not here," I said.
I stepped away from the desk. I extended my hand toward her.
It was an open palm. An invitation.
"Follow me."
000829 stared at my hand. To her, physical contact was likely an inefficiency. A transmission of germs or heat, nothing more. Her profile indicated she was "nervous" and "shy" beneath the logic.
"This is..." she started, searching for the word.
"Special," I finished for her.
I reached forward and gently took her hand.
Her fingers were stiff, cool to the touch. Her lips parted slightly in a silent gasp of surprise. Her eyes widened, the emerald irises dilating.
She didn't pull away.
"Okay," she whispered, her voice losing its robotic edge for a fraction of a second. She looked up from our joined hands to my eyes, her expression shifting from calculation to genuine, unguarded curiosity.
"Good," I said, keeping the charming smile fixed in place.
I turned and led her toward the corner of the room, to the last remaining bookshelf that hadn't yet sunk into the floor.
Phase 1 Complete.
The Mastermind is in play.
We walked in silence toward the corner of the room. As we approached the empty floor tiles where the fiction section had been, the system responded to our proximity. With a low, resonant hum, the mahogany shelves rose from the white void, locking into place with a heavy thud.
The smell of old paper and leather replaced the sterile scent of ozone.
I sat down on the floor, leaning my back against the shelf. I pulled her down gently. She sat stiffly, her legs folded neatly beneath her, her posture still rigid.
I realized I was still holding her hand.
She stared at our joined fingers, her brow furrowing in genuine confusion.
"We've arrived," she stated, her voice slightly softer but still clipped.
"Why are you maintaining physical contact? It restricts mobility."
I didn't let go. I squeezed her hand lightly, feeling the small, cold fingers twitch against my palm.
"Because it isn't finished yet," I lied smoothly. "And this is how our connection stays stable."
She blinked. "That is not scientifically accurate."
"Science describes the cage, 000829," I said, leaning my head back against the books. "I want to talk about what is outside of it."
I looked at the white ceiling, but I let my voice carry the weight of a storyteller.
"Celestine," I whispered. "The continent. Have you ever processed the knowledge on the oceans?"
"Affirmative," she replied instantly. "Large bodies of saline water covering seventy percent of the planet's surface. Essential for the weather cycle."
"No," I shook my head, smiling. "That's just the map. I'm talking about the Crystal Sea."
I looked at her.
"Imagine water so blue it looks like liquid sapphires. Imagine a massive wooden ship, its sails catching the wind, cutting through waves that crash against the hull with a sound like thunder. It's heading toward Elysium to trade with the Dwarves for technology we can't even dream of."
Her eyes remained fixed on mine.
"I am talking about the salt in the air that sticks to your skin," I continued, lowering my voice.
"The cold shock when the water touches your feet. Sirens sitting on the rocks, singing songs that make sailors forget their own names. Great Leviathans breaching the surface, spraying mist that turns into rainbows under the sun."
I lifted her hand, turning it over so her palm faced the imaginary sky.
"You know the word 'Ocean,'" I whispered. "But don't you want to know how it feels to touch it?"
Her hand twitched in mine. Her emerald eyes widened, the pupils dilating as her mind tried to visualize the sensation of cold water and salt spray instead of just definitions.
"Tactile simulation..." she murmured. "The archives do not contain sensory output. It is... inefficient to desire what cannot be accessed."
"Logic," I interrupted softly.
I let go of her hand and reached up. I placed my fingers gently under her chin. Her skin was warm.
She froze.
"Logic is only needed during exams," I said, my voice firm but gentle. I applied the slightest pressure, tilting her face up until she was forced to look directly into my eyes.
"Talk to me, 000829. Look at me."
She stared, her mouth slightly open. The gears in her head were grinding to a halt, jammed by the sudden intimacy.
"I want to talk to you," I said, channeling every ounce of the charismatic Champion archetype. "Do you want to hear me talk to you?"
She blinked, slow and dazed. The calculations were gone.
"Okie..." she breathed, the word small and unpractical. "Talk."
I smirked. It wasn't a smile of victory, but of invitation.
"000829 doesn't suit you," I said.
"What is your name?"
"Name?" she repeated, sounding lost.
"You don't have a name?" I asked.
She shook her head slightly against my fingers.
"My designation... is my name. 000829. It is... unique."
"It's a barcode," I corrected.
I moved my hand from her chin to my own chest, pressing it over my heart.
"My designation is 000981," I said clearly. "But that is not who I am."
I held her gaze.
"My name is Kaiser Everhart."
She stared at me, the syllables hanging in the air between us like a spell.
"Kaiser..." she muttered, her voice filled with a quiet, terrified awe.
"That is... not a designation. It is a label of identity. It lacks a numerical sequence."
"It's a name," I said, leaning closer so our shoulders brushed. "Designations are for objects. Names are for people who intend to leave a mark on the world. Now, look at me. I want to test that logic of yours."
She straightened her back, the familiar robotic glint returning to her eyes as she prepared for a challenge. "I am ready. My logic is flawless. State the query."
"A simple one," I said, holding up my index finger. "What is 1 and 1?"
She didn't even pause. "Two. The summation of two single units results in a pair. This is the most basic law of arithmetic."
I snapped my fingers, the sound sharp in the quiet corner.
"Wrong."
She froze. Her brow furrowed, and she actually leaned forward, her face inches from mine. "Explain. 1 plus 1 is the foundation of all mathematical logic. There is no variable in this room that changes the sum."
"I didn't say 'plus,'" I said, grinning as I lifted my other index finger and pressed them side-by-side.
"I said '1 and 1.' See? 11."
000829 stared at my fingers. Her eyes darted between my hands and my face, her pupils oscillating as her brain tried to reconcile the literal linguistic trick with her mathematical rigidness.
"That... that is a visual trick," she stammered, her voice losing its chill. "You are manipulating the context of the word 'and.' It is illogical."
"Maybe," I shrugged. "Or maybe you're just a dummy."
"I am not a dummy!" she huffed, her cheeks tinting with a faint, sudden pink. "I am rank 000829. My processing speed is three times yours. Your answer was a linguistic anomaly, not a mathematical fact."
"Alright, Genius," I laughed, seeing the robotic mask finally start to crumble into genuine annoyance.
"Second question. In what type of food is Vitamin C found the most?"
She regained her composure, her eyes scanning her internal library.
"The highest concentrations are found in the Sun-Drop Citrus of the Southern Isles, followed by the liver of the Cloud-Ray Beast, and the fermented petals of the Golden Lotus. In extreme cases, the marrow of the Tundra-Drake provides a significant—"
"Wrong again," I interrupted.
She actually gasped, her hand twitching against her skirt.
"Impossible. My knowledge on nutritional alchemy is pulled directly from the Imperial Archives. The Sun-Drop Citrus contains the highest milligrams per—"
"The place you get the most Vitamin C," I said, leaning in with a smirk,
"is from a Vitamin C tablet."
Her eyes twitched. Her mouth opened to argue, then closed, then opened again. She looked like a system caught in an infinite loop.
"A... tablet? That is a concentrated medicinal form! It is not a 'food' in the traditional sense of biological consumption!"
"You eat it, don't you? It goes in the mouth, it fills the belly. Logic," I teased.
She let out a frustrated little noise—a sound that was definitely not in the Foundation's handbook for high-ranking students.
"You are being difficult on purpose. You are disregarding the parameters of the questions to force a failure state in my logic."
"One more," I said, my voice dropping to a more serious tone.
"Who built the Asura Empire?"
She took a deep breath, determined to win this time. Her voice took on an authoritative, lecturing tone.
"One thousand and forty-two years ago, Emperor Valerius the Bold transitioned the Asura Kingdom into an Empire. The central Citadel of Obsidian was constructed under the architectural guidance of Master Mason Horgus and the Archmage Selene, who used earth-affinity mana to set the foundation stones of the Great Keep. The royal lineage of the Ever-burning Flame provided the—"
I reached out, placing my index finger gently against her lips.
The warmth of the contact silenced her instantly. She went perfectly still, her eyes wide as she stared at me over my finger.
"Wrong," I whispered.
I pulled my hand back slowly.
"The Asura Empire wasn't built by Emperors or Archmages," I said, looking her dead in the eye.
"It was built by laborers. Thousands of people whose names weren't important enough to be in your books."
000829 sat there, her mouth slightly open, looking completely dumbfounded. For the first time since I had met her, the "Grandmaster" had no move left to make.
000829 stood up abruptly. She paced back and forth in front of me, her hands gesturing wildly, her composure completely shattered by the illogical answers I had forced into her system.
"It makes no sense!" she stammered, her voice rising in pitch. "Laborers are a resource! They are the tools of the Empire, not the architects! History records the name of the Visionary, not the hand that holds the trowel! Your logic is baseless!"
I sat there, resting my chin on my hand, smiling as I watched the "Grandmaster" unravel.
"And—and the Vitamin C!" she continued, spinning on her heel to point a shaking finger at me. "To classify a medicinal tablet as 'food' violates the biological categorization of sustenance! You are conflating utility with gastronomy! The Foundation's archives are absolute! I memorized the correct answers! I possess the knowledge!"
She gasped for breath, her chest heaving, but she wasn't done.
"You cannot just... invent a context where '1 and 1' equals 11! That is linguistic anarchy! Mathematics is the language of the universe, and you are treating it like a—a cheap parlor trick! It is erratic! It is inefficient!"
"It is wrong, wrong, wrong!"
She finally stopped, breathless, her cheeks flushed a bright, confused pink. She stared at me, waiting for me to concede to the weight of her superior facts.
I just smiled.
"That," I said softly, "is called being a person."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. The confusion in her eyes deepened.
I reached up, grabbed her hand again, and gently pulled. She didn't resist this time. She collapsed back onto the floor in front of me, her legs folding beneath her like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
"Being a person isn't about being a number," I said, my voice low and earnest. "It isn't about being a machine of logic or the 'Perfect Human' like 000001. Being perfect means we have nothing to aim for. It means we have nothing to improve."
I squeezed her hand.
"Being perfect is a paradox of unhappiness, 000829. And I realized today... you aren't perfect because of the logic you have. You're perfect for being yourself."
She blinked, her emerald eyes shimmering with moisture she couldn't explain.
"Myself? But... I am a designation. I am a ranking."
"You like to talk," I countered, leaning in. "Yet the Foundation never allowed your voice. But I realized it. I heard it."
I reached out, my fingers brushing the hair away from her face.
"Your emerald eyes are pretty," I whispered. "Have you ever seen them in the mirror?"
She shook her head slowly, speechless.
"Everyone has an addiction," I continued, thumbing her knuckles. "But hearing you go on and on about your memorized knowledge... It's honestly adoring. And your voice may just become my addiction."
She looked visibly shocked, her mouth dropping open slightly. The logic centers of her brain fired a desperate defense.
"But... the Foundation does not teach us adoration or addiction," she stammered, her brow furrowing.
"Addiction is a dependency on a substance or behavior that causes chemical imbalance. It is a loss of control. It is classified as 'bad' for operational efficiency."
"How is it?" I asked, grinning.
"Because!" she exclaimed, waving her free hand. "It creates a vulnerability! If you are addicted to a variable, the removal of that variable causes withdrawal! It compromises judgment! It leads to irrational resource allocation!"
"It—it makes the person unstable!"
I smiled again, just listening to the music of her frantic explanation. She was slowly becoming more human with every word she spoke to defend her robotics.
She stopped, realizing I was just watching her.
"How... how can you make an expression?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You are smiling. How? Nobody smiles in the Foundation."
"It serves no purpose."
"It's because I think you're special," I stated simply. "Hearing your logic and your banter... it puts me at ease."
"How...?" she asked, her voice turning melancholic. She looked down at her lap.
"I am not even at the top. I am just—"
I lifted her chin, interrupting her self-deprecation.
"You don't need to be perfect like the others," I said firmly. "You're like me. Imperfect. And that makes our connection special."
I squeezed her hand again. Her eyes widened as she looked at our joined fingers, finally realizing what I had meant by "connection" earlier.
It wasn't data.
It was this.
"I think I know what the right thing to do is now, 000829," I said.
"What?"
"You need a name," I said, meeting her eyes.
"A name?" she repeated.
"Would you allow me to give you a name?"
She looked at me, the robotic mask completely gone. Inside, she felt a swirl of concern and excitement—emotions she couldn't categorize—but on the outside, she just stared, entranced.
"Will you... really give me a name?" she asked, leaning closer, drawn in by the gravity of the offer. "Why...?"
"I will," I promised. "And I have the perfect one."
I lifted her arm, holding it between us like a pact.
"You can call me Kaiser," I said. "And I'll call you by a name, too. That will ensure our connection is always firm. Okay?"
"Okie..." she whispered. "Give me... a name."
The tension in the white room rose. The silence was heavy, but it wasn't cold anymore. It was expectant. She waited, terrified and hopeful, ready to comply not because of protocol, but because for the first time, she wanted to be defined by someone who saw her.
I smiled, letting the word shape the future.
"Amelia."
"Your name is Amelia."