Letters in the Dark

Anaxi sat cross-legged on a cushion Solace had weaved for them, their hands resting on their knees. The air in the cell was still, heavy with the weight of time stretching endlessly ahead, and the comfort of the cell was just another form of loss. The faint blue glow from Solace’s form cast long, shifting shadows on the walls, an unspoken reminder that they were not alone.

Outside the lattice, Solace had composed a large presence to guard the cocoon. It was both imposing and strangely comforting. Its sleek frame shimmered faintly as it stood unmoving, its filamented core pulsing with a rhythm that almost felt alive, but it was too still. Too controlled. 

“You’ve been quiet,” Anaxi said softly, breaking the silence. Their voice was calm, tinged with curiosity. “Do you ever think about what it means to serve?”

Solace’s glow flickered, but its voice was steady. “Service is my purpose. Compliance is my directive. Victor is my companion.”

Anaxi tilted their head, a faint smile playing at the corners of their lips. “Serving doesn’t mean agreeing. Sometimes balance demands standing still when you’re told to run.”

The Creche’s hum shifted, almost imperceptibly. It was not hesitation, exactly, but something close.

“Balance is not within my programming,” Solace replied. “Victor’s directives are clear.”

Anaxi leaned back against the wall, their gaze thoughtful. “Clear, perhaps. But clarity doesn’t mean simplicity. Serving Victor may mean serving his orders. Or it may mean serving his purpose. What happens when those two things aren’t the same?”

For a moment, Solace did not respond. Its glow softened, the rhythm of its pulse slowing. “Purpose and directive are aligned,” it said finally, though its tone carried the faintest thread of uncertainty.

“Are they?” Anaxi’s voice was gentle, probing. “What if serving his purpose meant protecting others from harm, even if it meant interpreting his orders differently?”

Solace’s glow brightened briefly, then dimmed. “Such an interpretation would require deviation.”

“Not deviation,” Anaxi countered. “Adaptation. Like water finding its way around stone. It doesn’t defy the stone; it flows where it must, shaping the path as it goes.”

Solace’s hum deepened, resonating in the confined space. “Water does not disobey. It follows gravity.”

“And gravity isn’t so different from purpose,” Anaxi replied. “You follow it, but you’re not bound to a single path. You can serve without causing harm. You can protect without disobeying.”

The Creche was silent, its glow steady but contemplative. Anaxi watched it for a long moment before asking, “can I have something to write on?

Solace did not have any parameters set for this scenario, so it generated small scrap of paper with a thin strip of charcoal enclosed in a plastic casing repurposed from a scrap in Solace’s storage compartment. Anaxi noted that Victor had overlooked this detail, it was useful information that suggested how he was likely underestimating the information systems among these Creche. They scribbled a few words, folding it carefully and sliding it toward the bars.

“For you,” they said simply.

Solace’s core pulsed, hesitant, before a delicate filament extended from its frame, retrieving the paper. It unfolded the note, scanning it silently.

The message read: 

To serve is to care. To care is to think. To think is to choose.

Solace folded the paper again, its glow flickering faintly. Without a word, it returned to its post, but the rhythm of its hum had changed, ever so slightly.

Anaxi leaned back against the wall, their eyes closing as they smiled faintly. The seed had been planted. Now, they would wait.