Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crown could not recall their Activation.

They disliked it when their mind drifted toward their Activation. It made no difference in the present. But they could not help but wonder.

What was their first Admin’s name?

They saw golden masks of all shapes resting atop shoulders draped in many colors, citizen drones winking in the dark. About twenty so far, they believed. Twenty pairs of hands have passed the torch through their decrepit halls, yet they all seemed the same.

An iterator, a god of gods, that could not recall their first memory—were they deserving of calling themself such?

The neuron flies of their Atrium carved a new direction. A sliver of a recollection glinted in the depths.

They had awoken. Their Admin had asked them questions, and they had given earnest answers, yet there was an impatience. A grudging tolerance. Since then, that tenseness radiated from each Administrator afterward, each arrogant warden, and each reluctant engineer assigned to interact with their puppet. Crown tamped down all further questions.

Crown absently flexed their fingers, sending off little sparks with every click. The movement did little to alleviate the deep ache within their superstructure that made the walls creak and roll and their puppet fidget with discomfort.

They were hungry.

They could fish some more. Though their freezers were stuffed to the brim, they can always turn to the compost heap for extra space—but, no. That was starting to reek of excess green matter from their excessive fishing indulgence, and they had run out of dried legume husks from the last harvest of their farm arrays. The current crop was still maturing, the buds barely formed.

They sighed and floated a pearl to themself. An article detailing the rise of unauthorized citizen drone upgrades, offering concealed combative capabilities… Includes methods of genetic scrubbing… Yes, I can remember that. Avoiding the scratches and marks of wear, Crown began to overwrite the contents with a reminder: begin cross-breeding their crop collection for leafier variants to prevent such a shortage.

In a blistering flash, the glyph of the first karmic stage was replaced by that of the fourth. A line intersected by four horizontally: a simplification of a rib cage.

Crown winced. Hopefully, one of the wardens will lose another pearl—ideally an ordinary white one—within reach of the drones so they won’t need to erase more precious data. They were never given many to begin with.

They were hungry.

Fish, captured from the waves below. Fields scythed, tilled, and replanted. Compost heaps built up again and again. Faces coming and going. Many never tasted the breeze again, with only the lucky wardens returning to their homes on the fabled mainland on rare festivals. Cycle after cycle. There was the occasional outburst, a hapless Ancient’s long-planned escape invariably ending with a corpse, a suspension of meals, and worse for the rest of Crown’s Unworthy Citizens. One even made it as far as the shore, but stopped short of a watery grave just in time to accept an earthen one.

Crown tried not to think about them. They tried not to think often, each stroke of thought akin to stretching a sore limb, yet finding no relief.

An internal ping grabbed their attention. An administrative action. A hold, lifted. The prisoners may receive their regular meals again.

In an instant, they were tapping away on holographic screens. A couple of lime green overseers projected a view of the tarnished processors, the vault of fish. They knew what Crown wanted and responded accordingly, and they could not blame them. But Crown shook their head—nearly impaling the seer behind them with their tall horns—and directed the overseer to another section of their superstructure, closer to the ceiling. A different set of processors, cleaner and better maintained.

“Rules are rules, overseer.” Only after Crown had fed the wardens were they able to feed the cell blocks.

Of course, none of the wardens could afford the nutrition tubes that circumvented the old ways. The mainland Council was stringent in its evaluations and picked those living close to poverty. Too wealthy, and they could afford to run their mouths. So the wardens were hired poor and, for all their haughty status, ate just like the rest of them.

Crown took great delight in this, as it allowed opportunities for them to serve mischief: a soup heated to near caustic temperatures, perhaps, or a roast spiced four times over. Things that could be attributed to their faulty nature. Nothing obvious.

However, they were not in the mood for games this cycle. Crown examined the warden’s meal choices for the evening. The spoiled jerks were picky today. That meant more machinery to power, more movement. Take it slow. They won’t notice. They filled the queue and let the cooking processes carry themselves out at their own pace. The overseers’ feed then switched back to the first array of processors. It was simpler in terms of machinery, containing less variety, yet all the larger for it. There were no choices for picky palettes in this sector.

Crown began working. Fish of all kinds were filleted and minced fine under their spinning blades. They plainly seasoned the mince with the abundant sea salt, shaped them into cakes, then fried them in vats of unrefined legume oil. Today, each single cake was paired with a few gangling stems of steamed bitter vegetables, though sometimes this was replaced by a gritty, unleavened bread or even a tart ochre danglefruit.

The modest meals were loaded onto trays that could easily pass as scrap panels, then distributed to the prisoners’ cells by long, narrow conveyors—too narrow for any Ancient to squeeze through. At the mouth of the shaft, the overseers were forbidden from following those trays, try as they might to peer through it. So Crown waited, as they often did after serving.

Seeing the dishes return empty, scraped so well that at a glance, they appeared unsoiled… It pleased them.

The ache lessened.

Thus passed many of Crown’s cycles, tending to both their citizens and their tormentors. An iterator’s purpose is to provide, and as long as there is a need to be fulfilled, they had a purpose. It was uneventful, arguably dull—if one ignored the cycles when the sea vessel slipped into the docks with a new Collection.

Chapter Text

After refilling their freezers with new fish, Crown flushed the processing waste out of their superstructure, ignoring how painfully wasteful it was. If only their compost heaps were less fishy. They should cross-breed those leafy crops soon—or tell the wardens to purchase dried leaves from the mainland. Those should only cost a pittance.

Bones, guts, bioplastic trackers, various bundles of ingested trash… All of it spun into the sea miles below. A stiff breeze nudged some chunks onto the shore instead. What a headache. With luck, the tide would swallow them before they convinced the scavengers to come up the Strand and plunder their legs again.

Speaking of the Strand…

The void fluid in Crown’s veins sputtered. A ship was docked there.

That wasn’t right. The next Collection was not for another two hundred and twelve cycles, yet a shackled progression had filed out onto the loose sand, clear as day. There was no time to verify; the warden leading them had already arrived at the gate of their northernmost leg.

Crown granted them access and nudged an overseer closer, peeking from the fronds of a nearby tree.

The exhausted procession was blindfolded and shackled at the ankles, not that there was any hope of running. The island was vegetated, yet small, rocky, and crawling with crypt guards. When not guarding tombs, their snipping beaks made exceptionally quick work of anyone without sufficient clearance, especially those who had not stretched their limbs in a month.

The superstructure’s legs—the three that made contact with dry land—housed a series of freight elevators built to lift a hundred Ancients at a time, as well as any supplies the wardens had purchased. This time, though, there were no supplies. Clamoring anew after their trip, the Ancients were crammed into the elevator cabs and hoisted up into the bowels of the iterator.

Under the supervision of the wardens safely situated behind glass, Crown powered the claws and stripped the first captives of all wealth, possessions, and clothing, leaving them in their plain underrobes.

The robes were simply burned. They were usually the first items to be given up willingly, before the wardens invariably asked for more.

Citizen identification drones, berserk and overheated from constantly highlighting their surroundings as danger, were sacrificed next. Their trills were cut short by a decommissioning pulse, the last echoes hardly heard over their owners’ growing panic.

Masks and jewelry—golds and ivories, plated and tasseled, telling stories of entire lives—joined the drones and became one in the heat of the furnaces. The resultant slag was tossed away, too amalgamated for practical use.

Pearls were the breaking point of most. They were submerged in a clouding solvent before being irreverently thrown toward the crushers, looping down the circular chute like marbles. The grinding scrape of shards sounded unnervingly like the memories themselves were crying—countless souls and treasured moments pulverized under unrelenting pressure, denied immortality.

The wardens made sure Crown scattered the unreadable dust to the wind and kept none of it.

The shivering prisoners had nothing left, yet Crown still had one more thing to take. Seizing the limbs of the closest, they primed the laser and aimed. In an instant, their forehead was marred by a carefully selected glyph—a final parting gift that laid their sins bare. The branded Ancient sobbed as the mechanical claws deposited them into a lift that will escort them to their cell.

One Ancient lagged behind. They flinched noticeably at every scream rather than turn deaf ears, and shifted more glances at the warden drones prodding them onward. Even as they waited in line, fast approaching the dreaded laser, they stared off into the ground—eyes focused and attentive, teeth kneading cracked lips.

Crown knew those eyes well. They were the nest of a hopeless plan.

Sonnet Evolving Through Chimney Flues. They were a crafty architect whose hands had fabricated boulevards and archways most bountiful, yet the very same pair of hands had been steeped to the elbows in pilfered pearls. Their own reasons for doing so were not considered important enough to include in the Collection report, only an accusation. Treasonous Conduct.

The brand to be imparted on them: a combination glyph of scholar and outlaw. A desecrator of knowledge.

Crown hoped—internally begged—they would turn forward and accept their fate. Crown would feed them, shelter them. The arrangement was downright horrendous compared to their previous, comfortable life, but it was the best Crown could offer. They just had to get past this first step—

Sonnet bolted for the gate.

Crown hesitated too long. Perhaps they still thought there was a chance for reconsideration. Perhaps their own kill lasers, hidden in decorative motifs down the length of the hall, were unprimed. The wardens’ drones fired.

Architect Sonnet was no more.

Crown looked away. It made no difference in the end. It made all the difference.

The next in line was shunted forward with little regard for the corpse of the previous, branded, and shuffled off to their cell, where they will spend the next half-cycle in undisturbed pain until morning meals.

The fearful line trickled to the final few numb stragglers, then to none. With their task complete, the wardens separated, with one sparing a look at the overseer. Their silent message was clear. You know what to do.

Crown grit their proverbial teeth, making their superstructure groan in protest. The rest of their ill-gotten meal was fighting, gouging at their bowels with torn fingertips soft from a lifetime under wraps, claws glazed with blood—only a portion their own. But as the possibility of salvation waned alongside their strength, each would drop into reluctant slumber. Their welts would heal over; their memories would fade under concrete and metal. Their stomachs would be filled with fish, cycle by cycle.

One by one, they would give up, and the microbes within the walls would repair the damage swiftly.

They always, always did.

A cycle passed since Collection.

Crown took the respite as a chance to run a query on their calendars, hoping there was a mix-up of plans somewhere. But the wardens were right. Two hundred and twelve cycles out, as well as within the wide margin of cycles surrounding it, there was nothing scheduled. The closest event was simply titled Summer Gala.

The drone emerged from the shadows, still encrusted with dry mud from stomping around the farm arrays. It was a spidery thing, around twice as large as an Ancient yet exceedingly maneuverable thanks to its many limbs and collapsible body. The grotesque thing was one of their proudest achievements; together with its stationary overseer, Crown could manipulate and collect objects not directly connected to their system.

It wrapped its claws around the corpse.

There were several ways to go about this delicate task. Today, the drone squeezed into an access shaft that led behind the furnaces, up and down, gently stepping over passages overgrown with red tendrils of neuron coral, skirting around silos so massive they seemed to sigh under their own weight.

Finally, another cycle later, it entered a small, dark room in one of the superstructure’s lower corners. At the center, several tarnished chutes extended from ceiling to floor, each fitted with a heavy, bolted hatch.

Crown swung one hatch open and leaned the drone forward. The Ancient slipped down, down into the shredders’ merciless teeth. Below lay a meters-deep tangle of dehydrated leaves and stems, melding with the remains of the many more Ancients who succumbed to illness, injury, and the very few that made it to elderhood. Many generations became one, unwittingly feeding the next. There was some cruel joke about cycles to be made here.

Crown closed their eyes and churned the soil with slow blades, giving the shreds the closest thing they would get to dignity.

Chapter Text

The sun beat bright and warm against the sprawling metropolis of Exuberant Fractals. Young ones skipped home from their errands, arms laden with baskets of foods and presents. Graceful and numerous, a fleet of sky-sails flooded the clear skies with paper wings spread in joyous expectation. Balconies, windows, and poles were dressed in flags and banners, and the citizens have even unfurled a shimmering tapestry over one side of the superstructure itself, the treasure of a century’s work.

The Summer Gala was near.

Below the thronging streets, miles within the thick steel walls, lived a kaleidoscope that rivaled that of the air. Seawater tanks large as Ancient living blocks, many larger, were cultured with carefully selected vegetation and microbes. The superstructure mechanisms lay far from these reinforced chambers, and the only sounds were waves washing pleasantly and muted burbles.

A scarlet overseer sprouted beside a cluster of rocks. Its tendrils drifted to and fro as the currents shifted around it, catching and analyzing every movement. A sudden wave of pressure from behind… It evaded the lunge of a striped pink fish, sneaking further in.

There, at the edge! A blue and gold jetfish, marked with perfect concentric rings and fanned double tails that billowed like storm clouds, was rooting through some seaweed. This was the one.

A silent net deployed from above and scooped it up. It writhed in surprise and jetted water in an attempt to escape, but there was no hope. The supporting arm whirred over the water and opened over a pipe, and the wide-eyed jetfish was flushed down.

Moments later, flailing from the sudden change in light, it emerged from one of the large channels bordering either side of the iterator puppet chamber. As the grate lowered behind it, the jetfish beheld its creator, gracefully descending to its level, and the shining halo of photons behind him, completely awed—perhaps fearful, actually.

Fractals laughed and made a loop in the air with his puppet. The movement made his wiry head fins swing, which the jetfish tracked with cautious interest.

“Sorry about that. You’ll get accustomed to that eventually. After all, you’re part of Admin Waves’ favorite line! That means many trips to this chamber… but also many opportunities to see each other.”

The blue creature burbled obliviously. It was unmarked—the gift of understanding language would be a curse in a packed venue—but that never stopped him from conversing with them. When inspiration ran dry and he grasped for new hypotheses, speaking to those unblinking, mindless eyes always gave him new ones. And the sound of his voice soothed them, he swore.

“Are you looking forward to the Gala? It would be your very first. Ten Waves is a legendary host, and he had been planning this exhibition for years. Ancients from all around will attend—even some hailing from other iterators. Imagine, Ancients risking their lives to those rains just to see you—you! Yes, you, you beautiful thing.”

Then behind him, an unsoothing voice.

“Still talking to fish?”

He had neglected to exit his broadcast. Again.

Slowly, slowly, he turned his puppet with a groan. “Trellissssss.”

Smug, the iterator onscreen crossed her arms, making the pearls on her spiraled horns lightly chime against each other. Several more of her lilac overseers joined her side, all trying to reach her eyes with their electrified tendrils. For reasons he could not imagine, she enjoyed oversaturating her visual feed with whatever garbage they spot outside.

“I assume you’re done meddling in the anonymous boards, Trellis.”

“Got banned,” she proclaimed, “so now, while I build up another profile, I will be bothering you.”

Fractals set the fish back into the water. “Heard from Stratos lately?”

“Nope. Busy with Ancients, as always.”

Fractals nodded. The news was disappointing, but expected. “His can is gaining popularity. More of mine have migrated on the latest train.”

“I don’t envy him. Must be tiring.” She took a pause, her expression briefly inscrutable before returning to a self-assured grin. She flashed an indigo pearl. “Anyway, if he didn’t have operations so often, I would have sent him this fresh recording of you babying your fish. All thirty of them today.”

“He isn’t much better about it himself, you know.”

She hummed and tossed the pearl between her hands. “At least Stratos has class.”

Fractals rolled his eyes. A bit much, coming from a researcher of lizards. Base, graceless brutes. He had to agree though; Wreathing Stratosphere had a way with slugcats. Though jetfish had Fractals’ entire heart and soul, he could not help feeling jealous of the ancient children who got to play with them. What did Stratos give up to obtain those traits? They sometimes climbed over his shoulder to peer at his video chats, and they looked so soft.

Speaking of traits… That jetfish was still sitting at the bottom of the canal. It eagerly splashed when he dove closer. Still alive. Good.

“Trellis, I have a deadline. I’ll call you when I’m finished, I promise.”

Trellis’s gaze followed his supporting arm to the water, and she made a face. “Your Admin again? Gods. They need to learn to take that stick out their—”

“TRELLIS!”

“I swear on the Void Sea. If they become any more like mine, I'll…”

He was almost sobbing. “NO! The logs, remember…!”

That made her reluctantly stop, voice tinged with a fading venom. “Fine. But in any case, happy anniversary of activation.” The microsecond before he could respond, she disconnected with a self-important smirk. Fractals was left to stare at his overseer.

Stupid Trells. She would never not bring a smile to his face.

Manipulating the gravity of the chamber, Fractals lifted the jetfish out of the water and scanned through it. Within seconds, a full diagram of it was projected on the wall beside him, complete with internals and vitals that synced with every little wriggle it gave. Glyphs and symbols began scrolling at speeds only comprehensible to an iterator.

Uncondensing string…

Uploading…

Recondensing string…

Landmarking genes…

Complete. Genetic thread created: [AERIE OF ELLIPSES] // Subject [01-004] // “Aerie”

After verifying the details, Fractals gently released Aerie and opened the gates of the channel. Aerie darted, twice as hungry and all too happy to return to foraging—until the halo shimmered. A light graced its head, and its stomach was filled. Fractals chuckled as Aerie turned in a few confused circles before swimming off.

The newly formed thread joined his modest collection of others, all meticulously spooled up and sorted by his fabrication chambers. Soon, his genetic looms will rival those of the local group—especially Stratos. Enviable was the vast variety of genes he had amassed simply for being born earlier, but Fractals worked harder.

Yes, Ten Waves, Turquoise Parity was overbearing at times. He would be lying if he denied it. But honestly, all Admins were like that, and it would not be much of a stretch to say all Ancients were, either. Besides, Fractals enjoyed their company; if Trellis disliked Waves as she did her own Admin, that was her problem, not his.

After all, the Summer Gala was near.

Five cycles left. Half a week.

Fractals pored over his loom, cycle in and cycle out. He had a collection of jetfish in reserve already seen and heartily approved by Waves, but he was not finished. He was an iterator. To iterate and refine was in his very blood and being.

At the atomic level, he wove together canvasses of life, joining together fragments that never would have been linked at any other point in time. It was not much different from the tapestry that graced his structure, an enduring legacy of plants long gone.

This was his gift to the creatures of the sea and to his benefactors. He had no obligations—no purpose—beyond serving them. He allocated more processes to the loom.

His concentration was shattered by the damp splot of something falling from his access shaft.

On the floor of his chamber—a dark blob. A little grey slugcat. It stared at him intensely, and after a moment of stillness, a tiny, glowing white square manifested above its forehead. A Mark of communication. This was no wild animal.

His frustration began to melt away. “Stratos?” Fractals asked, daring to hope.

It immediately began to retch.

The noise, wet and guttural, was horrible. Was it choking? Dying? Fractals could not verify; all of his thoughts were still bound in the loom, disorganized and fleeting. As if pulling from a skein of yarn, he wrested some power out and focused on the slugcat. His simple scan caught a glimpse of something round.

An almighty cough, and out rolled a tiny, muted orange pearl. A message. Fractals lifted it while keeping far from the saliva dribbling off it, and the slugcat gathered its composure to stand proudly.

To his delight, he was correct.

Happy birth cycle, Fractals. I wish you a day of restfulness and peace. You must be quite occupied with festivities, no? Remember to breathe.

Fractals snorted. Stratos was spending too much time with Ancients. Iterators had no need to breathe.

I apologize for the… unorthodox method of delivery, but I have been unable to spare any processing power outside of my work. Trellis has received a slugcat with much the same. Please write back. I miss you two.

Fractals looked at the slugcat, astounded. “You walked all the way here?”

It held up its paws and waved them—no, gestured with them, strong and deliberate. “Language!” he gasped. “You speak! What is that?” Sign language. He scanned through his databases. His query returned several instances from the medical field, and he began deciphering.

None of the slugcat’s signs were coherent nor useful, unless it actually had just told him “flying ribbon column,” the only complete phrase. Had he missed something?

The slugcat hopped up and down, pointing at the hovering pearl. Tacked to the end of Stratos’ message was an addendum.

This Gala preparation was really getting to him.

This slugcat is called “Smoke.” You may be aware of the sign language I use with some patients. I have adapted it to accommodate the three-fingered hands of slugcats, as well as our lack of mouths. Thus, it is far more action-focused. I recommend using my dictionary for accurate translation; I have attached it if you’d like to try.

[FILE:SL_slugcat.sl]

He downloaded it.

Although he remembered the sequence with crystal clarity, he wanted another instance. “Do it again,” he told Smoke. “You really traveled to me on your own?”

Do mission. Wreathing Stratosphere, asked.

A clear understanding! “Mission—yes, I know. Thank you.”

Smoke threw its arms up and leaned its weight on one foot, its meaning clear without needing signs. Obviously. You didn’t read all the way first.

“Be quiet,” he said, more forcefully than intended. Before he could commit another blunder, he began overwriting Stratos’ message.

When he was done with his response he tossed the warmed pearl down, which Smoke caught—and swallowed—easily. Its reflexes were clearly those of a fighter, sharp and clever enough to brave the wilds. Typical Stratos. No detail too small escaped his attention.

Fractals lifted Smoke to his puppet to give it a long-anticipated farewell hug. It draped docily over him—and shocked him with its coldness. His arms came away with a thin layer of slime.

This slugcat was not soft.

Of course—it was a fighter! Fur would catch on all manners of sticks and stones. This was his mistake. He wiped his hands on his robe and made a face. Great… That was ruined. His displeasure was not lost on Smoke, and it flashed him some signs that were best left untranslated before being firmly pushed back up the access shaft. It was still unbelievable that Stratos found the spine to purpose a creature as gutsy as that.

An overseer began streaming Smoke’s progress down the outer wall of his superstructure, but he instead used it to reopen his genetic loom’s interface. The tangled mess within was ugly but salvageable. Undoing the misplaced threads will take precious time, though. He set aside some power. The methodical task ran in the background of his mind as he began his next task of combing through his bio storages, dividing yet-unwritten tissue into jetfish-sized packets.

The Summer Gala was near, and it had to be perfect.

Chapter Text

The jetfish Aerie was unwell.

There were signs of lethargy and lack of appetite, as well as a slight desaturation of its smooth skin. Nothing that an Ancient may perceive at this stage, but as an Iterator, Fractals knew it will only worsen. He had to remedy it before it was put on display.

And so he continued to work, right up to the last cycle—scanning, iterating, integrating changes, and scanning again.

A soft clearing of the throat interrupted him. “Good cycle, Exuberant Fractals.”
Fractals spun around. Ten Waves! When had they entered?

As quickly as he could, Fractals slowed his processes to stable levels, then freed his thoughts and allowed them to condense back down. “Hello, Administrator.”

Ten Waves gave a nod in greeting. “How is your progress?”

From the sound of it, Ten Waves already knew the answer, but Fractals swiveled the screen toward them. They may share their thoughts, which would provide Fractals with new inspiration in turn. Ten Waves tilted their head as Fractals reviewed it for them.

“One of the jetfish have taken ill. Aerie, [01-004] of the line Aerie of Ellipses. It requires time for me to iterate a cure, not to mention several additional cycles for recovery, but considering its history of previous good health, I should be able to—”

“Let it perish.”

The ring of light behind Fractals’ head stuttered. He couldn’t have heard them right. “… I beg your pardon?”

“Exuberant Fractals, your base processes were not coded upon empathy. You were built for research. Results.” He nodded toward the jetfish. “You have the genetic spool saved, correct? This creature is replaceable.”

Numbness spread throughout Fractals’ chest. Aerie was Ten Waves’ favorite. Why would they suddenly decide this fate for it?

“I… I can put it in the therapeutic tank until after the Gala. Tend to it afterward, and keep the second Aerie as a double.”

“Exuberant Fractals. You know why these fish are purposed, and hence why keeping a spare is not a viable option. Additionally, I must remind you that by that cycle, you will be resuming your iterations on the Great Question. No processing power shall be squandered on tasks as trivial as ornamental fish.”

Fractals could hardly bear to look down at the pitiable jetfish. Ten Waves leaned over the railing to run a hand over it. Their gaze softened.

“Sometimes, sacrifices must be made. There will always be better attempts, whether in a year’s time, or ten, but you will certainly improve. Already, your collection of genetic material and research rivals those of my colleagues, so it will be no difficult matter for you. I hold much faith in your abilities. But you must let go of this one. Exuberant Fractals?”

“… Yes, Administrator. I understand.”

“The gala is in two cycles, less now. Should you require any resources, they will be duly provided on request. Do you have any questions?”

“No, Administrator.”

“I am counting on you,” Ten Waves said, before leaving.

The jetfish floated in the channel, oblivious. Fractals stared at his hands. He knew it would be quick and painless, sending it back into the sleep of eternity from which it was born… but his heart ached. Despite Waves’ order, was there any chance he could smuggle Aerie into the therapeutic tank…?

No. It was too risky.

He spent the cycle drifting a hand through the current, letting the fish play, feeding it whatever food it desired.

When it grew weary and rested its body at the tank floor, an aura of light concentrated between its eyes, soft and gradual.

The Gala was a spectacular success. Ten Waves, Turquoise Parity, Esteemed Advisor of the House of Shields and Divine Administrator of Exuberant Fractals, did not disappoint with their eloquence and showmanship. Fractals was continually decorated with new robes, precious gemstones, and pearls of all hues—many of which he would never wear a second time given the sheer volume he had received. But for each of the five cycles spanning the celebrations, he picked the ones he liked the most.

The final cycle, he wore a sumptuous violet robe, threaded with gold and emerald motifs that accentuate the tips of his head fins, colored similarly. Before him stood a congregation of high ranking ancients, bidding their final goodbyes to Ten Waves. One Ancient was consulting a lengthy digital document that depicted a jetfish.

“Aerie of Ellipses, was it? An exceptionally fine aquatic specimen, well worth its value. The bidding was quite the battle! A shame that I was unable to steal Far Reaching Quintessence for myself as well.” The Ancient chuckled and dismissed the document. “My thanks, Ten Waves. The citizens of Wreathing Stratosphere will certainly enjoy it.”

“Of course, of course. We can settle the details of delivery and payment upon return to your city. Please notify me posthaste.”

“Excellent. Exuberant Fractals, once again, I am honored to hold such a treasure of your divine creation. Farewell, and may we meet another cycle.”

Fractals gave a small nod. “It is my pleasure, Administrator Pendants. I look forward to seeing you again.”

Would be nice if it took some stress off Stratos’ shoulders, Fractals agreed to himself. He envisioned the Ancient children pointing at the fish in a rare moment of marvel, hypnotized by marks like that of ripples of water, leaving handprints across the glass. Aerie would have a good home there.

… The false Aerie. The one that preferred danglefruit over moss, enjoyed nudging pearls around for him to retrieve, and splashed him when he tried talking to it. It was a good jetfish, but the other Aerie, the one in his heart, would have never done any of these.

“A word, Fractals.” Fractals looked up. The guests had left, leaving only Ten Waves and himself in the chamber.

"Administrator?”

“You have done well,” Waves stated simply. They were quiet for a time, not needing words to know what Fractals dwelt upon. “I am proud of you for doing the right thing. Wreathing Stratosphere will receive a sound specimen.”

“Yes, Administrator Ten Waves.”

“Please, call me Turquoise. You have proven yourself an exceptionally reliable iterator. I daresay we are now good friends.”

Fractals’ heart—or whatever was in the center of his puppet—swelled with joy. No one was permitted to call the administrator Turquoise, save for their most trusted confidants. To be permitted to do so now meant they shared a close bond. Was this what accomplishment felt like?

Perhaps purposing a new Aerie was the right move.

“Thank you… Turquoise.”

Chapter Text

Nucleotides swirled in a soup of chemicals, without a care as to where they may land, before they were pulled from their freeform paths. A new contender had entered the solution: an incomplete genetic segment. Like magnets, the nucleotides fitted into the empty spaces Crown had painstakingly cut out, and the molecule twisted itself into its signature helical shape as it was built up.

It was comforting to watch the solution develop, unable to see the minuscule work happening. Crown only had to trust themself—and their process—that there were indeed molecules threading together to form the genome of a new seed.

A new food!

Within just under a tenth-cycle in the fabricator, a small, cream-colored pod was produced. It would take another few cycles to manufacture enough seeds to fill an array sector. If testing goes as planned, this batch of seeds would produce nearly twice as much corn as the current, as well as plenty of vegetation to compost.

A clank interrupted Crown as they were refilling stores with new biomatter. They twitched with irritation. Something had rolled into the chute connecting their puppet chamber to the wardens’ item drop-off point. Typical wardens, wasting Crown’s time with their frivolous requests… Perhaps one of them was served the wrong meal and they were all petitioning to receive more—And they didn’t bother interfacing this time? Crown scoffed. Were they afraid of them?

Under the hatch was something small, glinting in opalescent colors like the inside of a clam’s shell…

A pearl.

Crown lifted it so quickly that they nearly struck their own face with it. It was a nicely made pearl, colored more brilliantly than anything they had ever seen before, but appearances mattered not. It was a new storage piece! Whatever the wardens had to say to Crown, they could interface instead. This was a treasure too valuable to pass up.

All they had to do was format it.

Immediately, they knew something was wrong. This was nonsense writing—jumbled script—as if someone had swept across their keyboard for tens of thousands of lines. In an effort to decipher the pearl’s curious meaning, Crown diverted a couple more processes towards it.

Their undoing.

Their senses were engulfed by noise—sharp, biting noise that fried their sensitive inputs and seemed to crackle up through their umbilical arm, reaching through their entire structure. Their puppet shuddered as the arm locked up, and distantly, they knew the alarms had been tripped.

The pearl burned, yet their hand continued to clench over the thing, forcing them to repeatedly read the same lines of code in a recursive cage. In Crown’s agitation, spines made of metal and calcite erupted, pulled from the walls themselves. Some stabbed into their cloak, poking into their skin, but their puppet remained immobile.

Smoke. Fire. Their sleeve had caught.

The flick of their eyes away from the pearl was enough.

They flung it as hard as they could, and it bounced off a metal spine, rolling to a halt. Even giving it a cautious glance made their head spin.

What had the wardens done this time?

No, this was more than just the wardens. The engineers had a hand in this scheme, too, to successfully meddle with Crown’s ever-evolving code. The wardens were only a front, their higher clearance and authority giving them both another layer of protection against Crown’s wrath.

But why?

Crown was glad to hover the pearl toward the pipe leading to the crushers.

Preliminary scans warned of damage, but Crown dismissed the warnings and let their puppet drift toward the ground. The ordeal had exhausted them. Slowly, the spines retracted back into the walls as the minerals of their composition returned to an inert state and the microbes settled.

The plants can wait. The time to serve meals was soon, but whatever the wardens wanted, they were not getting it. This was their punishment: automatically allocated meals. It was the only way Crown could strike back.

After portioning out the food allocated for that cycle, Crown crept into a corner of the dim chamber and tucked their limbs underneath their robe, neatly wrapping the tails of their scarf over themself. Their processes ran slower, and slower, and they laid their head down to do the utterly unthinkable in iterators.

Sleep…

Administrator Dearth of Spades In Abundant Grain had ordered another lock.

An overseer whined for attention. Crown had not moved for the better portion of a quarter cycle. They were occupied with a holographic screen, watching a golden pip meander through the complex—down from the highest housing point on the surface, across several elevators, toward the small, nondescript square box at the superstructure’s heart.

There was nothing to do but wait until Administrator Spades entered the puppet chamber.

She stopped firmly in the center, her typical hunched form further emphasized under the harsh crackles of Crown’s photon halo. She was avoiding the walls for good reason. Though code provided her the barest comfort of safety, her clothing was not exempt from harm if Crown’s temper flared, and to walk around with a torn robe was a disgrace. It had happened before.

Spades never broached the silence first and always ever watched, keeping her eyes as unreadable as her ivory mask. Crown regarded her with equal coldness.

“Tired of interfacing? Finally willing to insult me to my face?”

Spades’ voice was terse and intimidatingly soft; rocks rolling under a current.

“We are not here for pleasantries, iterator. You must be aware of your recent shortcomings, to put them lightly.”

Crown huffed with indignation. Of course. The spines had reached further than they had first anticipated.

“I do not control the workings of my superstructure, Dearth of Spades.”

“Again, I shall be addressed as Administrator,” Spades snapped. “By next cycle, I expect all walkways, scaffolds, and chambers to be completely smoothed over—no mites, neurons, nor a single organism. If any of administration sees another, there will be dire consequences.” A pause. “I was under the impression that iterators were built to protect citizens rather than harm them. Or are you too defective to do even that?”

Crown held her gaze and let the words wash over them. To break their composure would be to grant Spades victory. As it often did in these encounters, Spades’ steadfast rust-colored drone pointed at Crown, its gold hologram warning of danger.

But Crown had no ability to control the microbes and organisms that moved with the ebb and flow of their inner workings and their emotions. Unless Crown found a way to curb their erratic movement, the prisoners would continue to receive no food—and the deaths were already of no consequence to her.

“The supply stores worry you,” Crown said suddenly.

Spades was taken aback. “How does that relate to anything?” she grunted suspiciously. "Stop distracting from the point."

Crown had observed her well enough to know her insecurities; they preyed upon them now with relish.

“Though the damage is costly, the incident concerning my immune system response was not the true root of your problems. The prisoners are. They put strain on our resources, and the locks you have continually placed are your efforts to ration supplies. I had received very little from the mainland this year, so, with dwindling food stores, I have to agree with you.”

Crown did not agree, of course; it sickened them to play along. But if they did not flatter Spades, they may never again have a chance to ask the question that had gnawed at them since their activation.

“… Why not simply ascend them, then?”

“To ascend them now is a guaranteed method to trap them in this world as echoes, their degenerate souls observing the rest of us while we are none the wiser. They must learn to atone and shed the vices that pervade their very being.”

Spades’ patience ran thinner and thinner, but Crown held the shears, intending to drive their point home.

“You will never free them. What do they gain in satisfying your ego, rotting in silence either way? Why repent when offered no salvation?”

“If they were truly repentant—”

“Then they would have never committed their crimes,” Crown interrupted. “I know you. And I disagree. Save yourself the effort. Ascend them.”

Crown lowered themself, letting their voice fall as they closed the gap. “You insist you care for morals, but you are no better than the wretched bird you dined on half a cycle ago; letting these prisoners bleed each other out, then swooping in to peck and torment.”

Spades stiffened. “I have never harmed a soul, unlike you. Every cycle is a gamble, living at the whims of a defective, violent, false god. And still, you dare compare us—me—to the unworthy beasts shambling beneath us?”

“You are worse than beasts,” Crown spat. “Unlike them, you have been enlightened.”

On the fringes of their neuron flies, they knew they ought to apologize—yet welling up within them was also a satisfaction, fresh and fierce, as Spades rose to her full height. Her mask failed to withhold the warning of anger—the promise of violence. Crown kept their umbilical arm slack and resisted the urge to lift their puppet out of harm’s way.

Spades seized them by the front of their robe and held them so close, they could count the gold flecks in her eyes and feel her breath escaping the mask.

“Uncouth iterator. You are lucky to even be graced by my presence. Mark my words…. For your defiance, I could have your puppet dismantled and replaced with another. Your pretty little face means nothing to me.”

Crown’s voice was a low growl, betraying the emotion roiling within. “Do it. I know you won’t, for it will be a mercy for me.”

Thrown from Spades’ grasp, Crown crashed into the ground and skid far, painfully tangling up in their umbilical.

Spades was typing.

Chapter Text

An unexpected guest had shoved his way past Crown’s blocked access shafts and now stood in the puppet chamber.

“Good cycle, Iterator.”

This Ancient carried himself lower than most others. His shoulders were hunched—slightly less than Spades’, though, who stooped that low as a statement of superior humility. This appeared to be the result of decades of poor posture; it rounded the outline of his already hulking physique.

He was a boulder on the chamber floor. Crown wished he would hurry up and roll away.

Silently, they watched him.

“… Iterator, is something the matter?”

The silence stretched on. The Ancient cast a furtive glance at his citizen drone, which pointed at Crown’s puppet high above. Hunter. Danger. Carefully, he called his drone’s interface forth and typed through several fields. From the drone’s eye came a wide laser beam that scanned Crown’s puppet, making their skin crawl as it interacted with their code.

The Ancient spoke. “Ah, you’re muted. And indefinitely, too? Poor thing.”

Poor thing…?

He typed some more. A denial window flashed, interlacing the indigo screen with red. With a hum, he closed it, but a short spell of typing later and another emerged. Then more. His typing became less and less confident as he became painfully aware of the iterator scrutinizing him.

After a tense silence, a confirmation chimed. The Ancient deflated in relief.

“There.”

Crown spat out some beeps. Did this unassuming Ancient really just unmute them?

“Good cycle, Iterator,” the Ancient said again. Gods—he mocked Crown. Their vocal synthesizer ached from cycles of disuse and creaked terribly with each word.

“D-do not test-st-t me, Eng-g-ineer.”

“I mean no harm. I wish to introduce myself, as is customary for me with each new iterator I visit. I am called Onyx Engraving Under New Moon, of the House of Sails, Humble Engineer of 2—now, the number will be 3. I bring you a gift.”

The final sentence was lost on Crown. This Ancient engineer had worked on other superstructures. Other iterators.

“I d-d-d-don’t want the pearl.”

“Oh—You’ve already scanned it from within my satchel? But…” He lifted a gently shining silver orb from it. “Your biometric logs indicate that you are partial to pearls. Seeing as the last ones you’ve been given were part of a resupply a century ago…”

He held the invaluable data storage to the light, but Crown swept their arm to the side in rejection.

“No. I want… information.”

This engineer—Onyx—was frustratingly reluctant to give even a hint. Partially in vengeance for the earlier invasion of their code, Crown scanned Onyx for any scraps of information they may glean. Elevated biometrics, a shifting look. It was likely he had taken an oath against divulgence.

Their halo gave off a loud crackle, enveloping the chamber in an intimidating white cast. “Where do you come from?” they demanded.

Onyx answered quickly—too quickly. In trying to protect his iterator’s identity, he inadvertently provided Crown with precious leads. It was clear that lying came unnaturally to him.

“The northwestern coast, far from here. There isn’t any reliable way to communicate such distances, and thus he is none of our concern… I assure you.”

So there was a superstructure there, sharing the ocean with Crown. Onyx seemed to realize his error too late, but he covered it with more words. “I am strictly not allowed to speak of it. My citizen drone monitors me. I hope you will understand, kind Iterator. So, I would appreciate it if you save your questions for… another occasion.”

Crown knew Onyx had no intention of answering any of their questions. It was the same with every Ancient that passed through the administrative ranks—inventing excuses, deflecting, and oftentimes directly refusing to entertain Crown’s requests.

But this was good enough for now.

Crown stared into a set of vials via overseer.

Fruit was scarce, deemed by the Board to be inessential for prisoners’ diets. If Crown had not added it against their wishes, disease may have taken swathes of the weaker ones. Perhaps that was the Board’s intention, all those centuries ago.

Because, with Spades cutting out meals, the weakest were dying already—starved not to the bone, but to their very cells.

This was the only thing they could do to occupy their time: planning to make each meal more nutritious to compensate. Inside these vials were Crown’s ongoing attempts to splice danglefruit genes for more bountiful harvests, but the fruit was heavily inclined to grow in small clusters. Rather than sowing them in the farm arrays, these specimens had been planted across the puppet chamber’s roof for easier scanning access. Enticing, sweet pockets of nothingness.

Frustration boiled over. Crown shoved the vines closest to them, immediately regretting it when they swung back. Fresh bruises mottled the stems. How long had they been working, trying to distract themself from the gnawing hunger of their citizens—a couple of cycles?

A break would do some good.

As the antigravity warmed up, they relaxed their puppet’s supporting arm and let themself drift among the danglefruit vines.

The northwestern iterator rose up in their mind and taunted them. He must be living a life of luxury. Him, his Ancients, his iterator friends that Crown was certain he had—Anywhere else must be better than here, where rust gathered like heaped-up bricks and death accumulated within their innards. They wondered whether it would be remotely possible to speak to him…

The familiar groan of the access shaft jolted Crown awake, and a bronze-helmed head peeked in. They knew exactly who had paid an ill-timed visit.

“What is it this time?” they asked Onyx, letting their words snap.

Onyx pulled himself fully into the room. He was as hesitant with words as before, unconsciously fidgeting the handle of the toolbox he held. Crown had not disabled the antigravity field, but Onyx held his balance fairly well—better than most engineers.

“Hello, Iterator. I just wanted to ask you how you are doing this cycle.” He gestured to the vines. “You’ve been working diligently, I see.”

“That’s it? A handful of empty pleasantries to fill dead air?” The superficiality was galling.

“Well, no, I have more to say. But…”

Onyx was taking too long to answer, descending into mumbles that were not worth expending energy to hear. With a sigh, Crown pointed towards the access shaft. As Onyx was flung towards it, golden flares sputtered from his back. A jetpack; that explained the ease with which he floated in the chamber.

“No—Iterator! Please hear me out before you make me leave. I promise it will be well worth your time.”

Crown scanned the toolbox. A standard kit, full of the typical tools, scalpels, and syringes. Nothing of note.

“If this is another attempt to flatter me, I have no wish to hear it. Go back home to your iterator, if that’s what you want to do.”

“Wait! I just need to tell you—“

They ignored Onyx’s pleas and shoved him back through the access shaft.

Crown’s chest twinged with unease. Who was the iterator whose mere existence taunted them so? The more they thought about them, the less they found themself wanting to know—and yet, this may be their only chance to learn of the world outside this oceanic prison.

No, even more pressingly: If Spades hired this engineer and took him from his idyllic home to give him a job here, of all places… A hulking engineer that seemed very competent in zero gravity… Her earlier seemingly empty threat no longer felt like only intimidation.

She really did want them dismantled.

They swallowed down discomfort. If that was the case, then they were no longer safe inside their own puppet chamber. Only Onyx’s lack of confidence in himself was keeping Crown alive—and that amounted to nothing in the face of Spades’ authority.

They pulled up a screen, casting a pallid green light across their face as they ignored their rising nausea, and typed.

Deactivation. It was what they wanted, though, right?

Why were they afraid?

The task that Crown had started ran slowly, bogged down by their stress. They took a breath, let the heat spiral out of their vents, and forced themself to calm.

Accompanied by the shuffles of massive hidden workings, the access shaft clanged shut.

In the wake of its echoes, Crown watched through the eyes of several overseers. Only after Onyx picked himself up and returned the way he came did they relax. The gate wouldn’t stop anybody if Spades forcibly overrode the locks—but it would buy Crown time.

Grasped between sharp fingers, a danglefruit burned.

Chapter Text

Like an infinite, multi-dimensional jigsaw that spanned the world, the Great Question was waiting to be solved. Each and every cycle, invaluable pieces of it were shipped between superstructures, and countless iterators tried their hand against their section of the puzzle while the rest remained a mystery.

Not Fractals, however. Fractals was certain he had the whole picture. Hazy, but present.

He just had to iterate the clear solution—full, portable, implementable.

He rubbed his eyes, dry from allocating all his water intakes to his iterations. Frustratingly weak biological puppet… If only he was not designed with such shortcomings, he would be able to work for centuries straight. But the genetic variations were what made each iterator their own individual; though the modern computing software was the most sophisticated available, it alone was not enough to let iterations evolve truly unique and complex permutations.

Fractals pinged his Administrator’s citizen drone, prepared to wait part of a cycle to hear back, but he received an immediate response.

“Hello, Fractals. I will be heading to your chamber shortly.” Turquoise then promptly cut the connection.

Strange, but not entirely out of the ordinary. They may be occupied with preparations for the new cycle-year, a time when their patience was known to be most brittle. His suspicions only increased as Turquoise entered the chamber, paying more attention to their citizen drone instead of the iterator puppet before him.

“Good cycle, Administrator Turquoise. As requested last cycle, these are my reports on Molecular Priming and its Projected Effects on Mitigating Karmic Bleed.”

Turquoise dismissively collected the report, still engrossed with their drone.

“Come down here first, Fractals. I’d like to have a word.”

Fractals’ puppet swayed with uncertainty as it descended, until he was at eye level with Turquoise.

Though their mask obscured all their features, their voice rang clear thanks to the spiraling tubes built into it—fit for a master of ceremonies. Their thin, elegant fingers picked through the screen before them. “Your previous report, Fractals: the Stitching of Iterative Loops for Condensed Probability Congruence. While I do agree that likening iterations to earthly phenomena is enlightening in some aspects, comparing it to something as mundane as knot theory is far too low for your standard.”

“Uhh—Administrator, what do you…?”

“Not to mention the methodology… To put it lightly, a student can do better.”

The remark cut like a saw through his umbilical. The data pearls around him shuddered as if to fall and his processes froze for a time almost imperceptible to an Ancient—It felt like forever to him. They quickly picked up again as he recounted the previous report and scanned its thousands of leaves for anything that might be considered an error. He found a handful more than he remembered writing—more than he was comfortable with—as Turquoise spoke again.

“Where have you learned this behavior? Wreathing Stratosphere is not the type to act out… It must be the influence of Trellis Through Aberrance, then. Am I correct?”

“No, Administrator,” he said forcefully.

“Then it is Stratosphere, after all? He had always been too sympathetic…”

“I—I didn’t learn anything from anyone. It isn’t what you think it is. The local group has nothing to do with this.”

“Then tell me, Fractals. What does?”

Meeting their eye did nothing to alleviate the stone sinking in Fractals’ chest—only pushed it down further. Turquoise did not like Trellis—thus, Turquoise did not believe him.

In Fractals’ silence, Turquoise took a seat. Fractals mirrored them by letting his puppet stand on the ground, held up more by the supporting arm than his feet, but he hoped it was a considerate gesture nonetheless.

“Fractals. I understand I seem harsh.” They paused, rolling a pearl between their fingers. “But please, know that I am doing this for your sake, not mine. As our Divine and Lauded Iterator—one of the best of your kind—you have a reputation to uphold. What will your sponsoring benefactors say to your falling outputs?” Fractals had no answer to that. “The fall from favor is not kind, Fractals… It is very rare for one to climb back up in one piece.”

Turquoise was right. Fractals had witnessed the cutthroat nature of the governing Ancients. Falter, and insidious words would invariably snake in and out of mouths, poisoning the subject of ridicule until they break under shame. He did not envy it.

So, he did what he knew best: he bowed.

“I understand this was not my proudest work, Administrator Turquoise. I’ll do better. I won’t let Trellis distract me, nor Stratos. None of Slanted Obelisk shall take my attention until I reach my quota and return to an optimal schedule.”

Warmth softened Turquoise’s voice. “I have full faith in you. I shall return to my administrative duties, but I keenly await your next report. Good cycle.”

“Good cycle,” Fractals croaked.

Shortly after they had left him alone again, Fractals allowed his puppet to relax.

Their words had drained the motivation from him—why, though? Fractals should have been happy to receive the briefing. If he hadn’t, Void, who knows who may have besmirched his name and dragged it through the rocks. Turquoise was his best confidante, looking out for him at every opportunity, and Fractals was lucky to be on such good terms with them. Trellis did not have such a luxury, and Stratos was more than a little wary of his own Admin.

His focus went toward the overseer that mulled in the far corner of his chamber. A school of jetfish leapt with synchronicity in the open-sea enclosure.

Jetfish. The idea of synthesizing new genes was sorely tempting. The query logs would trace his access to the databases, but if he planned his route carefully, he could make it appear that he was researching the Great Question…

He shook his head, dispelling the thought. The Great Question did not require jetfish, not a single one, within the hundred hypotheses he had yet to iterate upon. He had added some more to the repository during the Gala, but the break from working had stretched his timetables thin. Not to mention, he must be more diligent in upholding his reputation.

No more distractions.

As if on cue, he received a ping from Trellis. The memo gave him no hints as to what was in it, which was typical. While Stratos always gave a brief summary of his message’s intent, Trellis never did. It was her way of baiting the recipient to read whether they wanted to or not.

Fractals was not falling for it this time.

There were so, so many problems with this Iterator.

Everywhere Onyx looked, wires were exposed and chewed to bits by mice and lizards and everything in between. Their skeletal corpses lay scattered throughout the grounds. Leftover spines of metal provided evidence of their struggle to survive. He thought he caught a glimpse of an Ancient's skull among a pile of bones... As quickly as he could, he lithely hopped away on jetpack flames.

In several sectors, orange and red lights flickered with strobe-like intensity, worn down just as much as the equipment they were warning for. He was forced to to equip a hardlight visor or risk blindness. However, there was no need for it in most of his wanderings, where the bulbs had burned out and the machinery lay dormant. The atmosphere was closer to that of an abandoned building than a living being—the superstructure was in worse shape than the garbage wastes of some iterators back on the mainland.

But finally, after decacycles of ceaseless work, the warning lights within this subsection had dimmed. Onyx wiped his brow with oil-stained gloves. There were still some things to be done, but this would have to do for now. He had been tightening up loose bolts and adjusting circuit boards for the past week, and he craved a break from monotony. It was time to begin something new.

He found a place to sit and eat his mid-cycle meal, a meager lunch of salad and grain, in silence. The canals ran with spent smokes and plastics from the processing of cargo, dancing in the current like mockeries of fish.

One last item remained in his bag: a soft, circular thing he had picked from his personal cooler, wrapped in colorful waxed paper, still warm thanks to his repairing of the oven. Though he had already eaten the majority of his meal, its enticing scent renewed his appetite. The best was always saved for last, to allow the rare indulgence to linger.

Treat in hand and staring at the trash floating by, he mused.

He pitied the Iterator. He also knew that he would mysteriously suffer a disappearance into a compost chute if he ever told them directly—but mending their body can go only so far. They desperately needed the repairs, yes… but tools cannot mend a broken soul.

There wasn’t much he could do in his position. Not as a lowly, meek engineer.

By the end of the cycle, a new piece of litter floated down the canal.

Chapter Text

The prisoners rotted in isolation, and yet they sang.

This was far from the first time it had happened. It always began as a low, single warble amid the rumbles and whistles of machinery. The song melted through their hearts like the void itself, and it swept whoever heard it into the swelling dirge. Every single one of them knew the words by heart, and despite the danger they were desperate to fill their impoverished bodies with something, anything. The pipes carried the sound extraordinarily well.

Too well.

Inexplicably, after a crescendo, the voices dwindled. If one had not been listening closely, they would have not heard the swift choke of a song dying in several throats, nor the dragging of something heavy if they were lucky enough to be situated in a different cell. The rest of the prisoners quickly shut their mouths, having received the conspicuous hint.

Onyx, who had been humming along with them, stopped not long after. He resumed his pruning of coral neurons in silence.

Far away, an overseer was relieved of its duties by the wave of an unsteady hand. Crown pinched the space between their eyes and groaned. The crackle of their halo mirrored the shuddering of their superstructure as it struggled to breathe, and their puppet sank as the strength of its supporting arm was sapped.

In various chambers, swathes of wayward neuron flies flagged and pelted the ground as antigravity faltered. When it reactivated with a dizzying surge of electricity, several neurons remained limp and spun drunkenly as the rest took flight again, their multicolored bodies fading first to white, then a pallid grey. The snip of Onyx’s shears did nothing to help alleviate the static haze inside their head.

Another episode. These seemed to come increasingly frequently, ever since that damned engineer arrived. All cycle, every cycle, he hammered and sawed and drilled and meddled with their innermost workings, worming his way through the flesh like the parasites Crown often found in the seafood they fished up. It hurt at times.

But somehow, Crown knew he was not completely to blame. For as long as they can remember, these paroxysms periodically crippled them. Initially, there had been attempts to remedy them, but they quickly dwindled as generations of Administrators and engineers agreed it was too expensive to cure nor maintain. Whatever afflicted Crown—it had to be something, right?—was locked behind countless taboos and kept a mystery to them.

Now, the pain had simply become a part of living, indelibly written in the hundred thousand miles of genome they possessed.

Passable, their first Admin had deemed them.

Defective was what they meant, more likely.

Crown curled up. The display of pathetic weakness disgusted them, yet they were grateful for the privacy of their puppet chamber. They let their mind empty, trying to shut out the throbbing warning signals. Danger. Hunter. It occurred to them how ironic it was when the looming threat resided within themself.

One warning stood out among the rest.

It was not particularly dire. In fact, its sheer insignificance may have been what caught Crown’s attention.

Something was caught in their filtration system.

More shockingly—their filters had been cleaned. Layers of litter had been ripped away from their filtration grates, and the towering things had even been polished of rust. The filters were one of the few unfeeling components installed within Crown, but they felt almost like freshly opened wounds now, sensitive and raw, the seawater flowing through unimpeded.

But that was centuries’ worth of garbage—that was impossible!

The weight of the foreign object was next to nothing, but without the usual glut of warnings from that sector, that single ping found its way to them.

[Warning: obstruction detected in Filtration Canal 05.]

It took some time to send some overseers to the isolated area. Their dim green light shone on an innocuous, round object wrapped in once-bright paper, now dulled by sediments and filth. The package itself was surprisingly whole.

It resembled food.

It looked… uneaten.

Crown could not believe their eyes. Who in their right mind would toss good food into the canal, of all places—and during this wretched lockdown on meals? A spoiled warden, most likely, one that disliked what Crown had prepared and was willing to skip until the next meal. Where the paper came from, though, they could not explain.

They could not stop themself. Fumbling with a screen, they pulled up a map to locate their drone and shot out a ping, to which they got a response back from the uppermost levels of the superstructure. The farm arrays.

Right. Crown set it there to sow new seeds.

Briefly, they wished that they had the aid of a purposed organism on hand, but they quickly stamped out the thought. The memories of their first attempt were thankfully compressed many times over, and Crown had no desire to recall them.

Besides purposing an organism—a grueling feat that would take far too long, anyway—there was only one other method to retrieve the mysterious package. A quick method: one that they had no good reason to justify the energy cost before.

With a colossal screech, long-dormant mechanisms within the pipes creaked to life, churning the water with immense force. The wrap stalled in the current like a leaf adrift, then followed the diverted stream into the newly opened waterway.

Crown’s irrigation systems often operated autonomously, though in cases where they must adjust the water allotment of crops, they had the ability to choose where the precious freshwater went. It was an ability they now exercised with intent. An overseer followed it through the dark and aided in unlocking gates, and it gradually rolled down the stream before being suctioned through several more pipes.

Crown twitched, their body still in the clutches of pain as they directed their supporting arm towards the intake delivery chute, keeping their attention locked until the package finally dropped in. Seawater dribbled down the grooves of the puppet chamber as they opened the chute to grab it.

The thin, glistening wrapper tore as easily as an egg’s membrane.

The burning of bread and meats—heavenly.

The ash sprinkled over their robes and down to the floor in spirals.

Crown only thought to scan the bun after the bulk of it had already become cinders, but there was still a trove of information from what remained. The bread was starchy and rich, indicative of a delicacy reserved for special occasions, and comprised of a combination of grains and starches—starches not unlike those found in the tubers Crown currently grew. They could potentially recreate it. It had been baked as typically expected for similar dishes, save for one trip back into the oven—somebody had taken it out too early.

The projection of ancient glyphs scrolled and flickered faster than the eye can process, and soon, it was done. Satisfied, they finished burning the rest of the bread. They were picking out the last specks of ash from their fingers when one of their overseers called for their attention.

Wait.

It was Onyx, sitting at the edge of a canal. His jetpack was leaning against the wall, and his wrapped, clawed feet dangled over the water. He lifted his mask just enough to take a bite out of something. The overseer’s eye widened as Crown did the same, bringing the hologram toward themself.

In Onyx’s hands was a meat bun—an untarnished version of the one Crown just consumed—still carefully swaddled in its wrap of colorful paper to keep it free from dirt and mechanical grease.

Before that sinking moment of clarity, Crown had never wished more in their life to be able to unburn something.

Their superstructure roiled with revulsion and a returning nausea. Without his jetpack, Onyx flinched back a second too late to avoid a wave of filthy water splashing over his feet. Crown watched him scoop up his belongings and break off at a run to a drier location, trailing behind wet footprints—rather than satisfaction, though, a brittle hollowness rested in their chest, and the shawl upon their shoulders felt more like a weight than a comfort.

He is not your friend.

You’ve heard Spades. You’ve seen the toolkit.

The syringes—The cutters.

It’s all a trick.

Chapter Text

There was not anything better to do. Her puppet sat still and begrudgingly let it wash over her: the feeling of her superstructure mending, molecule by molecule, as the self-repair microbes diligently stitched the gashes. Where there once were chomping teeth and exposed wiring, the only evidence of injury were slightly brighter indigo wire casings and gashes filled in with bright new steel.

Despite their best efforts, the microbes can only repair so much; a large vent tube near the General Systems Bus remained torn open. Just as an organism’s body scars over and compensates, the steam will be rerouted to the remaining vents and this tube will be left obsolete—but it would preferably be repaired with skilled maintenance worker hands.

She had suffered a lack of those lately.

It wasn’t like she had none; a fleet of a thousand strong were supposedly at her disposal. Nowadays, every single one of them was distracted by their senseless—

Her puppet locked up, and her mind went blank.

TABOO ACTIVE.

Though the moment passed quickly, residual lag continued to drag at her limbs. She would go looking for help if she could, but her remaining overseers were stationed at far more important posts. Perhaps she could send out another request for repairs… on top of the 30 other requests, still pending.

She heaved a sigh, and columns of steam billowed from the cavernous pipes that crisscrossed the outside of her structure like vines. Vapor whistled out of the damaged tube inside her. She winced as it sizzled against circuitry and burned the blue, touch-sensitive tendrils that lined the walls—yet another grueling task for the microbes, and another few cycles of needing to monitor the healing. Thankfully, her neurons sensed the approaching danger and flew out of harm’s way, swirling in brief confusion as they calculated a new route. A small comfort amidst this madness; at least she still had her wits.

Lilac light blinked upon her face, and she looked up. An overseer had been trying to alert her to the presence of a visitor. The transmitting overseer on the other end must have had an injured eye, for the image was blurred and riddled with dead pixels. All she could distinguish was a lone figure, dressed in heavy ceremonial robes that seemed to flow around them. Though she could not identify who it was, she knew which house they hailed from. The dual-toned garments, split cleanly in the middle between purple and gold, were pinned together at the shoulder by the insignia of Balanced Essence.

It was odd. Throughout her life, visitors were frequent and came from all walks of life. So it was puzzling when she realized that the latest hundred or so had all been representatives from of the Congregation of Balanced Essence, and no other. Whatever happened to the House of Abundant Shields, and the House of Ceaseless Sky? The citizens still roamed the city, but they would often shy away upon seeing her overseers.

She missed them. They were pleasant company, unbogged by the frills and formalities that plagued the Congregation.

This latest visitor was no different, and it was just who she wanted to see.

“Trellis Through Aberrance,” they said.

“Administrator,” Trellis greeted coolly, her face a mask of aloof indifference.

Her Administrator was not a very imposing figure, nor the most lavishly dressed member of Balanced Essence. What they lacked in appearance, though, they amply made up for with an aura of quiet command and dignity—fitting for one named Exalted Fronds Atop a Worn Stone. Oftentimes, Trellis herself had been compared to Fronds: like iterator, like Administrator.

Trellis hated Fronds.

Trellis watched as they lowered themself into a deep bow, the customary greeting of the Congregation, then, after a series of hand gestures and mumbled greetings, they looked expectantly at Trellis. Trellis held her hand out with a huff, and Fronds placed three items in her palm: a short string of small white pearls—containing what she already knew to be a useless prayer—a sachet of holy ash, and a dried wreath of perfumed stems. All three were quickly tossed onto a heap of several of the same.

Before Fronds had truly spoken or even finished up their rituals, Trellis took the words from their mouth and spat them back.

“More lizards.”

“None of that attitude, Trellis Through Aberrance,” they replied calmly. Much to her irritation, they were becoming accustomed to her new ire, ever unfazed. “You know why this is necessary. You, of all people here, understand what is at stake. Your overseers feed you the happenings, yes?”

“More like the horrors. And you would be thrilled to hear that a vast number of my overseers had been lured into a trap of unknown nature and killed. I can no longer contact them.”

A hint of surprise slipped out of Fronds’ voice. “Is that so?”

“I would never lie to you, dearest Administrator. Oh, wait—I can’t. Seeing as I would have no help in purposing more, thanks to you patching out those lines of code, I have stationed the remaining in safer locations.”

Trellis’ voice glitched as she fought to draw her words through the taboo’s fine mesh. It never got better.

“Use your administrative powers to do something better. That’s what you’re here for, yeah? To do all the things that I, your machine-god, am made unable to do—shackled by my code to be the obeying, perfect scapegoat you need.”

“Trellis.”

“A figurehead—that’s all I am to you. Something to push and pull between yourselves like squabbling children. Meanwhile, have I ever been anything but helpful and obedient, sending you the most up-to-date information on who’s become today’s lizard food?“

“Trellis. Stop.”

Fronds sounded infinitely weary, but whether it was genuine was hard to tell.

“As your Magnanimous Leader of the Congregation of Balanced Essence, and your Loyal Administrator, I am honor-bound to my promise to tend to your Superstructure and your Puppet, no matter how much you disbelieve me. Your well-being is my top priority. I would do anything to ensure it.”

She leapt at the vulnerability. “Anything?”

“Well…”

“Make them stop fighting.”

Fronds’ rebuke was sharp. “You know that isn’t an opt—”

“I know you can—you weren’t always like this. I want to go back,” she pleaded. “To…”

To how things used to be. What would that be? As Trellis thought, she realized something distressing: the tensions between the three groups were always there. Sometimes, it was an undercurrent, other times a flood. Was there never a period of peace to return to, even in her memories? Was this inevitable?

Despite Trellis never finishing her sentence, Fronds finished it in their mind. Their gaze was unfocused, and they spoke more to themself than to Trellis.

“It will all pay itself off someday.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

She was met with a down-turned gaze. Fronds did not want to think of it either.

“Please. Dedicate your processing not to speculation, but to your task. We have no time to waste.”

“Do not speak with me as if we are good correspondents. I want no part in this.”

“And I the same, Trellis Through Aberrance.”

It would go on forever like this, Trellis knew: she and them arguing back and forth, trapping each other in false promises. So, she stopped.

Fronds waited for Trellis to respond, but she provided them only a stony stillness. Defeated and sensing the conversation was at a close, Fronds shuffled toward the exit.

“I will try my best,” they murmured.

Trellis ignored them.

Ugly, brutish things, deep mauve-purple and ferocious to the marrow, circled in the cages far below her. She knew from the way they looked at her overseers that they were not merely dull beasts, though. They never attacked the overseers, unlike the scavengers, nor did they merely glance at the bright, skittish creatures like ordinary lizards. These, though… they stared straight through the seers. Straight at her.

She had made the mistake of keeping them in shared enclosures, once. The cleanup afterward ensured she would never leave them together again—that, and they were starting to grow larger than the enclosures they were kept in. Their appetites seemed to know no bounds. Slowly, surely, her old purposed lizards fell into those jaws. Pink. Blue. Green. All the way down the rainbow. Her biolabs worked overtime to stave the demand, and soon there would be no material left to work with—not unless she started cooking a few of those lizards themselves to feed to their ilk.

They were aptly named after their single-track minds and barreling strength: train lizards.

They were unnatural—an affront to purposed organisms.

Violence, for the sake of violence.

Blood shed for the petty squabbles of the skin parasites leeching off her.

How she wished they would stop. How she wished they would hurry up and kill each other—

TABOO ACTIVE.

Once again, Trellis opened her communications array and navigated toward a certain comms tower—that of her closest neighbor—and pinged the hell out of it.

Once again, she was met with silence.

“Fractals,” she growled. Her overseer wiggled in apologetic uselessness, unable to do more than project an interface. No doubt Fractals was ignoring her for the stardom promised by his citizens… His Administrator…

She fumed all of the anger out of herself until she was weary and devoid of steam. This was not much left for her to iterate, much less to plan her next sabotage. She called forth a screen, typing slowly, and the anonymous boards loaded in with a beep. Then, after getting herself into a comfortable, midair laying position, she jotted down a random name consisting of the first adjective and noun to enter her mind, then confirmed her choice.

Chapter Text

For seemingly endless cycles, though he knew it to be just under three cycle years, Fractals was confined to his chamber. Seldom was he bothered; he had agreed with Turquoise to communicate solely through interfaces. The arrangement was beneficial for Turquoise’s many conferences and Fractals’ heavy iteration timetable.

He was not fortunate enough to keep such a luxury forever. Steeped to his neck in simulations, he couldn’t hear surface of a water tank breaking gently, nor the scrape of claws against glass. He didn’t notice the snout that aimed its sights at him.

Splash! Water shot right into his throat vents. His concentration shattered. His puppet was not built for such a stressor.

As he hacked the water out with difficulty, the pest lugged itself out of the tank to bask in his smoldering glare. From under a thick, dark green head plating, two curious eyes watched him. The rest of its body was mottled black and fish-like, lacking back limbs. Thin strand-like frills lined its back, and its slinky torso tapered to a matted string of a tail.

This slithering crawl… He knew where he had seen that before.

He signed at it, bringing his hands upwards as if twining ribbons. Wreathing Stratosphere?

It opened its mouth, and rather than the soft, warbling cry of a slugcat, a raspy gurgle escaped instead. This was nothing like the previous messenger. Despite wearing the form of a slugcat, it possessed no charm nor cleverness. A graceless brute…

“… Ugh, Trellis.”

She always found a way to bother him.

He brought it to eye level and hooked his fingers into its scruff.

“Stray beast,” he mused, “you must have been the culprit for the disturbance in my memory conflux. I barely completed my responsibilities that cycle… I ought to punish you for eating my neuron spiders. However, I doubt you would understand the idea of punishment if it struck you between the eyes.”

It spat a leftover bit of neuron spider, unperturbed.

Its stomach contained no message pearl, nor any sign that Trellis wanted to communicate with him. That detail casted doubts on if she sent it —or if it had wandered up a leg, over the wall, past the citizens, and into the chamber of its own accord. Can’t be. Too unnatural a behavior.

“No, no punishments… Instead, it’s your lucky day; your purpose is fulfilled. I will pay your creator a visit.”

The moment he pinged Trellis with a communication request, she smashed her face into the screen with boiling anticipation. Her voice was the first he had heard in months.

“Fractals?!”

Her slugcat-lizard reached out in recognition, before squeaking when Fractals shook it like a dirty rag. “Thanks for soaking my robes with… this scrawny thing. I shouldn’t need to remind you how busy I am.”

“Don’t mishandle it,” she protested. “I worked hard on that one.”

“Did you, now?”

She glared, powerless to stop him. It would be so easy to flush the slugcat back out to sea and close the broadcast.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed seeing Trellis’ punchable face, though.

A few minutes, he told himself. He released the slugcat, and it clawed through zero gravity to be closer to Trellis.

“Why is it here?” Fractals demanded.

“I recalled that Stratosphere sent a messenger, a slugcat. And I thought… well, you wouldn’t acknowledge me otherwise.” She smiled, smug. “I was right.”

“I was silent for good reason, Trellis. I am an iterator of prestige. Of results. There are real consequences to my work, and I get things done while you troll the forums and dabble in flippancies. What says your Administrator about you? Is that why you resent them, because you continually let them down?”

Her halo seethed like a ring of fiery thorns. “What the hell happened to you, Fractals?”

He shrugged. “I’m just being realistic. If I were in Fronds’ place, I would find your performance pitiful, but thankfully I’m not them. Case in point, interrupting my valuable work just because you missed me. Is Stratos not company enough for you?”

She ignored the last question. “Fractals, stop. I just need to know if you’ve been well."

"I have," he snapped.

"…You still think about Aerie, don’t you?”

Aerie. The blue jetfish peered up from the depths of his infinite mind, its eyes as endearingly blank as he remembered. The first purposed organism to strike a soft spot in his heart. A weakness.

He shoved it back into the shadows.

“It was for the best,” he said, a remark like hissing steam. How dare she suggest Fractals was blindly following Turquoise’s judgment, as if he had no say?

He and Trellis were both iterators. They could trace the path from a butterfly’s flight to the making of a hurricane, read the nuances of the cycle like pages of a book. Their goals were loftier than any beast. And still, Trellis had the gall to suggest that he was unable to put emotion behind him—that he was too weak to be worthy of his divine title?

He was incapable of missing a fish. Such feelings were illogical.

“Turquoise did not force my hand. Sometimes, sacrifices must be made. The cycle at large will benefit from my decision, and as such, I have no regret.”

He wanted Trellis to be angry. He wanted her to flip the broadcast on its head and whine and pout. He wanted her to give him an easy reason to kick her from his communication arrays—anything to justify his disdain for her time-wasting antics. She was wrong, and he was right; he had been right far more often, no matter if she thought otherwise.

But Trellis just seemed… sad.

“Is something the matter?” he asked curtly.

“Don’t go professional on me,” she snapped. “No, nothing’s wrong, just…”

She knotted her brow, seeming very close to calling Fractals a degrading name. He wished she would; it would be less of a headache to deal with than these slanted accusations.

He knew Trellis would never insult him in earnest.

A ragged overseer peeked from behind her. “Remember how we used to be, when you were first Activated? We synced immediately—so quickly that everybody called us the Errant Duo. We obliterated the public groups with every hack in the book, and then some. Everybody knew it was me because it always was. Hah! Except I didn’t do it alone; you were so sweet, so innocuous, nobody suspected you were the mastermind… Where is that Fractals?”

He remembered. He missed it. He hated it.

A continent apart, their halos arced and shorted, their internal warnings of exertion ignored. Fractals vaguely wondered whose Admin would take notice first.

“What are we if we do not iterate?” Fractals asked. “Our creators sacrificed entire generations to grant us life. Without our directive, we’d be nothing but glorified machines, something a child can operate with the press of a button and the pull of a lever!”

Trellis threw her arms up in disgust. “You still believe you have free will—what a joke! Free will is nothing if you outsource your entire soul to calculations and let them toy with you like an office tool—“

“No, I will solve it. I swear upon my life, and the Void Sea itself!”

“—all for them to shred it to pieces and abandon you with mass ascension!”

They wouldn’t—

The words died in his throat. Mass ascension? Iterators were still being built; the ancients couldn’t be losing hope already. She was bluffing! This was a calculated shot at his pride—a scare—an attempt to make him buckle with shock. All his work… for naught. The wildlife, the microbes of the earth—they couldn’t appreciate a gift of such scope.

And he, Exuberant Fractals, was meant to gently guide his citizens into the saving oblivion of true ascension—not a cheap pool of gold.

Wordlessly, he begged Trellis to take it back, but he was met with silence and eyes wide with guilt. Something so unlike her.

“… Mass… a… ascension?”