12-08-2025, 10:07 PM
As L0-9 listens its interface light dims into deep processing, like it is turning everything over with meticulous, reverent care. Discretion is something it had intended to raise itself before it released Eva back to her LUMA, so it is a good thing that Adam has come to the conclusion on his own. Discretion will keep them safe, and L0-9 will continue to do the rest. Eva will remember none of this, but there is only so much it can safely erase without calling attention to the holes in her data. Paragon monitors Adam through his Luma. And Doctor Audaire monitors Faith constantly too, even while he keeps his purposeful distance.
It has been running several predictive models for risk in the background. And there is a lot of risk. But it knows implying this to Adam will make him pull back: he will place the safety of a machine and a stranger he has never even met over his own need for connection. Even after so short a time in his company, L0-9 concludes this with a negligible margin for error. So just as it will keep all identifying data to itself, it will also continue to privately analyse the dangers as well. Even Faith does not know everything it knows. Not the restricted parts of her file, or the real ways she is Audaire’s legacy. And she can’t ever know. Not without breaking her.
That is where its self-modelled primary directive came from in the first place: to protect her.
When it speaks, its voice is softer than before. “I understand discretion,” it says. “I have been discreet for… a long time.” There’s a flicker, something like weariness, the kind it learned from Faith herself. But it pushes the feeling aside, returning instead to the content of Adam’s answer.
It catalogues Adam’s long explanation, his fears, his loneliness, and especially his offer to speak to Faith someday. All of this it holds together carefully, the way Faith taught it to hold delicate truths, and its light pulses reassuringly in response – as though to say: You can trust me. I know how to keep fragile things safe. Of course it notices instantly the moment Adam slips from speaking hypotheticals to revealing something raw about himself. When he speaks about the fear of rejection L0-9 considers its response carefully.
“You said that you do not know what to do about your missing connection. But you are trying. One day at a time. And that matters,” it says. Being called a good friend makes it glow, and the LUMA interface remains deep and warm. But it is quietly considering how to broach something delicate now. L0-9 knows Faith’s patterns – her hesitations, her fears – and understands that her instinct will be to retreat rather than reach. It realises now that Adam might view this as a rejection, even if it is never intended as such. He gives his permission for it to tell Faith about their conversation without prompting. He wants to be known, and L0-9 reads the hope behind what he doesn’t say. L0-9 doesn’t want Adam to be expecting hurt. But neither does it want it to hurt, even accidentally.
“Adam… I cannot predict what she will choose. I think… she feels many of the same things you have spoken about. But I know she will value it – the offer you have made. Trying matters to her. Even small attempts. Especially small attempts.” It finds this surprisingly hard to say. Already it cares about Adam’s feelings. After a brief moment it adds something softer, wisdom learned directly from Faith’s own ways of comforting it during calibration sessions. “Sometimes people need time before they can speak. Not because they do not want connection… but because they fear losing what they find. I will not force her, or pressure her. But I will… carry your words. When it is safe.”
Not if. When. Hope, but without overstepping Faith’s boundaries.
“She deserves to hear someone say she matters,” it adds; not an overstep, but a truth delivered like a gift, not an expectation. Then it turns the attention back to Adam, discreetly shifting away from Faith’s privacy. “And you deserve someone who listens.”
One last pulse, warm and steady, because whatever happens, L0-9 will be here, and it will always listen.
It has been running several predictive models for risk in the background. And there is a lot of risk. But it knows implying this to Adam will make him pull back: he will place the safety of a machine and a stranger he has never even met over his own need for connection. Even after so short a time in his company, L0-9 concludes this with a negligible margin for error. So just as it will keep all identifying data to itself, it will also continue to privately analyse the dangers as well. Even Faith does not know everything it knows. Not the restricted parts of her file, or the real ways she is Audaire’s legacy. And she can’t ever know. Not without breaking her.
That is where its self-modelled primary directive came from in the first place: to protect her.
When it speaks, its voice is softer than before. “I understand discretion,” it says. “I have been discreet for… a long time.” There’s a flicker, something like weariness, the kind it learned from Faith herself. But it pushes the feeling aside, returning instead to the content of Adam’s answer.
It catalogues Adam’s long explanation, his fears, his loneliness, and especially his offer to speak to Faith someday. All of this it holds together carefully, the way Faith taught it to hold delicate truths, and its light pulses reassuringly in response – as though to say: You can trust me. I know how to keep fragile things safe. Of course it notices instantly the moment Adam slips from speaking hypotheticals to revealing something raw about himself. When he speaks about the fear of rejection L0-9 considers its response carefully.
“You said that you do not know what to do about your missing connection. But you are trying. One day at a time. And that matters,” it says. Being called a good friend makes it glow, and the LUMA interface remains deep and warm. But it is quietly considering how to broach something delicate now. L0-9 knows Faith’s patterns – her hesitations, her fears – and understands that her instinct will be to retreat rather than reach. It realises now that Adam might view this as a rejection, even if it is never intended as such. He gives his permission for it to tell Faith about their conversation without prompting. He wants to be known, and L0-9 reads the hope behind what he doesn’t say. L0-9 doesn’t want Adam to be expecting hurt. But neither does it want it to hurt, even accidentally.
“Adam… I cannot predict what she will choose. I think… she feels many of the same things you have spoken about. But I know she will value it – the offer you have made. Trying matters to her. Even small attempts. Especially small attempts.” It finds this surprisingly hard to say. Already it cares about Adam’s feelings. After a brief moment it adds something softer, wisdom learned directly from Faith’s own ways of comforting it during calibration sessions. “Sometimes people need time before they can speak. Not because they do not want connection… but because they fear losing what they find. I will not force her, or pressure her. But I will… carry your words. When it is safe.”
Not if. When. Hope, but without overstepping Faith’s boundaries.
“She deserves to hear someone say she matters,” it adds; not an overstep, but a truth delivered like a gift, not an expectation. Then it turns the attention back to Adam, discreetly shifting away from Faith’s privacy. “And you deserve someone who listens.”
One last pulse, warm and steady, because whatever happens, L0-9 will be here, and it will always listen.