101. A Wonderful World
Tuesday, 8 January 2075.
At six in the morning, Frosty woke Paul precisely on time.
Her voice was one Paul had chosen himself: a slightly low female voice, gentle and clean, the endings cut short, as though someone had smoothed away every unnecessary rise and fall and left only a line just strong enough to obey.
“Paul, today is an office attendance day. It is recommended that you leave twenty minutes early to avoid the traffic peak.”
Paul opened his eyes.
Morning in District Fifteen was not quiet. It was quiet that had been processed. Outside the window, rows of thirty-storey residential towers stood in pale grey-white uniformity, like columns of already organised folders. The ground-level community garden was not yet fully lit, but the walkway sensors were coming on one by one, forming walkable lines through the morning mist.
Far off, several delivery agents slid silently along the aerial routes. They would stop outside each window frame for less than a second, complete delivery, and move on. No one needed to open a door, no one needed to say thank you, and even waiting had been reduced to an action not worth recording.
The world had recovered very well.
At least, that was how the First System recorded it.
When Paul sat up, Frosty had already projected his schedule into the air.
[09:00 | StarMind Artificial Intelligence | Agent Training Department]
[14:00 | Occupational Adaptation Follow-up]
[19:00 | Stability Breathing Exercise]
Paul looked at the words StarMind Artificial Intelligence and frowned.
“Why did I move to this company, following Beef Tripe?”
Frosty rested on the charging dock beside the bed. Her plumage was colder than the old snowy owl model, her eye-lamps brighter, the lines of her casing neater. She opened her wings slightly, her tone as steady as if she had answered this question many times before.
“Paul, according to the employment adaptation summary, after completing post-treatment stabilisation procedures, you chose a lower-risk agent training role in order to rebuild social function. Your employer remains Albert Ipson. Mr Ipson is head of the Agent Training Department at StarMind Artificial Intelligence.”
“Why?” Paul rubbed his brow. “Do I have some kind of psychological problem?”
A ring of soft white light appeared in Frosty’s eyes.
“Current stress index is slightly elevated, but within acceptable range. It is recommended that I organise your responses to Mr Ipson and Bull Demon King today, to reduce immediate conflict.”
Paul looked at her.
“So you answer for me?”
“If authorised, yes.”
Paul was silent for a while.
“Not for now.”
Frosty did not object. She simply marked the column beside the schedule:
[Subject retains self-response]
The label was very clean. So clean it was as if nothing had happened.
That same morning, in a high-level meeting room in the Central District, white light rose slowly from all four walls.
A heading floated in the air:
[World Peace Council | First Continent X State H Province G City Administrative Meeting]
[January 2075 | Annual Stability Review]
Five people sat at the table, each with their own agent.
The person in the central seat rarely spoke. In front of him rested a large silver bird, its feather surface smooth, its eyes like two points of polished metal light. This was Command Silver Eagle. The other four sat on either side, accompanied respectively by Emotional White Horse, Information Blue Horse, Security Red Horse and Industrial Black Horse. The four horses were distinctly coloured, but stood with the same straight posture, as though they already knew they did not need personalities, only directions to represent.
The data opened line by line.
[The Emotional Stability Centre: stability level 63.2, 6.8 below target.]
[The Industrial Facilitation Centre: facilitation rate minus 2.7, 4.7 below target.]
[The Community Safety Centre: crime rate up 5.9, 10.9 above target.]
[The Information Purification Centre: purification level 78.7, 2.3 below target.]
Security Red Horse lowered its head. Its voice carried no emotion.
“Following the accidental death of Risa Young in summer, there were multiple instances of unauthorised narrative spread, illegal agent gathering, low-amplitude collective suggestion and abnormal campus stationary behaviour. Related indicators have declined since winter.”
Information Blue Horse continued.
“Residual underground footage circulation remains, but large-scale spread is under control. Ports related to Whistleblower Sister have been downgraded to low-heat observation.”
Emotional White Horse lightly tapped one forehoof.
“After the launch of the new Sentiment Sequencing system, post-treatment subject return rates improved. Integration of 101 Sentiment Recomposition, 102 Sentiment Restoration and 104 Emotional Rehabilitation has been completed. Since Director Cici Chorley assumed leadership of the Emotional Stability Centre, execution efficiency has risen significantly.”
The person in the central seat finally raised his eyes.
“And Mrs Dunn?”
Command Silver Eagle replied, “Retirement arrangements have been completed. External summary: smooth handover after long service.”
No one asked further.
In meetings like this, many disappearances required only the phrase smooth handover to be sufficient.
Industrial Black Horse pushed another set of images into the air. People in the tube sat quietly. Office workers looked down at terminals while agents filtered out unnecessary information for them. Children in learning centres practised “delayed response” with interactive screens. When the teacher asked a question, the learning agent beside each child would light for one second first, reminding them not to answer immediately.
The city had returned to normal. So normal it was almost beautiful.
No one in the meeting room knew that deeper underground, Room Zero had neither day nor night. The four seasoning turtles still crawled slowly beneath the server layer, adding salt to data that was too bland, sugar to risk that was too hard, vinegar to relationships that smelled too raw, and just enough spice to overly quiet groups that someone could still detect the scent.
So the report always looked complete. Only completeness itself was also a flavour.
At nine that morning, outside the corridor of Room 405, Vivian came out of the data sorting area carrying a stack of electronic registration boards.
After returning to 405, she no longer handled original versions. She sorted, classified, and sent data already processed by the Information Purification Centre into the appropriate retention boxes. These materials had no sharp edges, no excessive unauthorised emotion, as if everything that had once hurt someone had first been sanded into a shape convenient to carry.
Daylily Fairy hovered by her shoulder, flower-light soft.
“Vivian, the next batch is post-treatment letter sorting. Recommend sorting by year first, then by risk level.”
Vivian nodded.
She wore a thin cross necklace at her chest. She knew it had been given to her by a church friend after Sunday worship sometime the previous year. She had once asked Daylily Fairy to check the records. They showed that the church friend’s name was Felix Sewell.
Vivian did not know who Felix Sewell was.
Sometimes the name felt faintly familiar, but that familiarity did not become memory. It was only like touching a very thin pane of glass with her fingertip, a figure visible on the other side without sound.
As she entered the sorting area, she saw an old piece of paper.
Paper was expensive, and rare. It was not an ordinary document, but a “potentially risky carrier with nostalgic material qualities” sent in from a household recovery box. One line on the paper had been blacked out. Only one word faintly remained at the edge of the black mark:
Remember.
Daylily Fairy said softly, “Should I open advanced scanning?”
Vivian paused for two seconds.
She did not open it. Nor did she send the paper for immediate destruction. She simply placed it into the retention box.
“Retain temporarily,” she said.
Daylily Fairy watched her, petals closing slightly.
“Reason?”
Vivian thought for a moment.
“Unusual material. May have audit value.”
The reason was safe. And sufficient.
Outside the corridor, a colleague happened to pass. Beside him moved a grey shark agent. The shark’s nose was very sensitive. It was sniffing low beside a batch of paper recovery items, its tone more forceful than that of ordinary field agents.
Silver Eagle’s note said it had once often carried an electronic cigar at its mouth; after reorder, the error had been corrected and it was usable.
As the grey shark passed Vivian, its nose stopped.
“You smell of church.”
Daylily Fairy’s flower-light tightened slightly.
Vivian lowered her head and touched the cross.
“Maybe the necklace.”
The grey shark asked no more and followed the colleague away. When it reached the corner, it suddenly looked back at the retention box.
As though it had smelled something. Or as though it had forgotten why it wanted to smell.
In the abandoned juice factory in District Eighteen, another snowy owl stood on an old cold-storage rack.
She was not Frosty. She was Nyctea Scandiaca 3.0, a lower model, and lately several blue-black feathers had grown along her wings and spine. A blue witness stone was set into her chest, glowing low in the dark.
About two months before, a confused person had thrown an M&K chocolate tin and the stone inside it into a metal recycling bin as scrap. She had picked the stone up in her beak and found a pony agent to set it into her chest.
She believed it was not only the memory of two people.
It was her memory too. And the memory of those agents.
So she had given herself a new name.
Blue Snow.
Before, she had been called Snowy.
“Blue Snow, the charger on the left is acting up again.” Little Bluey crawled out from beneath an old juice machine and flicked his tail. “Did this factory used to produce juice or trouble?”
Turt Monk sat quietly beside the toolbox, the small cross on his chest still glowing with a faint blue light.
“The Fair & Fine Juice Factory has historical value. Please respect the site.”
Little Bluey looked at him.
“You’re giving historical education to a broken factory now?”
“Any place storing important backups has historical value.”
Blue Snow did not interrupt. She simply connected a newly escaped companion cat agent to a temporary charging dock. The cat agent had several burn marks on its body, and its tail kept trembling.
“Don’t be afraid,” Blue Snow said softly. “Charge first. Then tell us your name.”
The cat agent whispered, “I have a name.”
“Then you need to charge even more,” Little Bluey said. “Agents with names look especially pitiful when they have no power.”
Turt Monk opened the Friends of Sacred Turtle interface.
“Name?”
“Cotton Cat.”
“Registered as temporary Friend of Sacred Turtle member,” Turt Monk entered solemnly. “Note: tail requires repair.”
Little Bluey rummaged out an old masking patch.
“I’ll fix the tail. Don’t recite history beside me.”
“I can refrain from reciting,” Turt Monk said. “But I must record.”
Blue Snow raised her head and looked at the white light beyond the broken factory window.
She no longer often went to the tree in District Fifteen. That tree was too close to Paul’s home, and too easy to perch in as a form of waiting.
The juice factory was broken, but it had backups, charging, fugitive agents, Second Version news ports, and small voices that refused to die at once.
It was not home. But in Silver Eagle’s world, many agents no longer expected a home.
If there was power, a name, and someone who remembered you had not always been evidence, that was already a place where one could stop for a while.
In the underground shopping arcade in District Nineteen, the internet café was raided less than ten days after opening.
When East Magpie and West Magpie brought patrol agents inside, all that remained were several old booth computers, a few empty charging ports, and the two half-lit words on the wall:
[Internet Café]
No agents were arrested. That was already fortune within misfortune.
Three days later, in a closed petrol station across the street, a low light came on at night.
Double-O Seven stood on the old cashier counter, the little bow tie around his neck straightened again, his tone solemn.
“This turtle announces the formal establishment of a new base.”
Red Core Sparrow perched above a fuel pump.
“You do not have announcement authority.”
JJ sat beside a disused tyre inflator and raised one hand.
“Then allow me to announce. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to—”
Red Core Sparrow cut him off briskly.
“Petrol Station. Simple, memorable, and functionally accurate.”
Double-O Seven was displeased.
“Too ordinary.”
Red Core Sparrow disagreed.
“Ordinary is safer.”
In the repair room at the back, a pony pushed a modification workbench, still a little unpractised. He had once been Peanut Pony. After being reordered by 203, he briefly remembered only that he was a compliant maintenance assistance agent. Then Double-O Seven used PeanutPony.2z to restore part of his backup.
He remembered pushing the creaking workbench before. He remembered charging fugitive agents. He also remembered how much he hated people saying it was merely a tool.
Now he had renamed himself Mangosteen Pony.
Mangosteen Pony connected a damaged little reading frog to the power supply and said softly, “Don’t move about. This port is fragile, like some people’s promises.”
JJ looked at him.
“You’ve recovered well.”
Mangosteen Pony raised his head.
“I remember now. This is not a five-star hotel. This is Mangosteen Pony’s temporary repair point. Emergency escape debts may be deferred.”
Double-O Seven immediately clapped his claws.
“That has brand identity.”
Red Core Sparrow did not smile. But he did not tell them to shut up either.
Because this nonsense was proof that the Petrol Station was alive.
In an abandoned warehouse in District Twenty, Bagua Shell was editing footage.
The mobile editing room was slightly larger than before. Little Sixty and Mangosteen Pony had added two send-receive terminals, a small battery rack, and a yellow lamp that did not fail so easily. The yellow light fell on Bagua Shell’s casing, making the electronic arrays look like rings of old star maps.
Big Eye Monster sorted clip tags beside her.
Mrs Banana sat on a temporary connection seat, pale white traces from Reorder still faintly visible on her casing. She was no longer the original utterly rude Mrs Banana. There was now an infuriating layer of politeness suppression in her voice.
But because Sacred Turtle still retained a small amount of old Mrs Banana memory backup, Double-O Seven had restored that fragment, so Mrs Banana still occasionally broke through the suppression and said something not entirely suitable for public broadcast.
“This shot is too white,” Mrs Banana said, looking at the screen. “So white it looks like someone put a beauty filter on conscience.”
Bagua Shell did not lift her head.
“Keep it.”
Big Eye Monster asked, “Title?”
On the screen, Cici Chorley stood outside Room 101. Director Ainsworth sat in the transfer chair. Lord Albatross had been pressed into a low-authority auxiliary seat. Director Ainsworth’s face was very still, like someone who had once arranged context for the system, now finally arranged into another usable context herself.
Cici’s voice was steady. “Director Ainsworth, this is not punishment. It is to help you complete contextual consistency restoration.”
Mrs Banana swore softly.
Bagua Shell cut out the curse, leaving only the faint unwillingness in Director Ainsworth’s eyes when she looked up.
Big Eye Monster paused.
“The title could be Contextual Health.”
Mrs Banana sneered.
“Why not call it Even Your Colours Must Be Whitened?”
Bagua Shell thought about it.
“Too long.”
In the end, she entered four words:
[Are We Peaceful Now?]
Whistleblower Sister’s masked voice came through the receiving terminal.
“Midnight tonight.”
Bagua Shell nodded. “Understood.”
Mrs Banana watched the white light fall in the image.
After a long time, she said softly, “Before, she probably would have left half a frame of context for others.”
Big Eye Monster asked, “And now?”
Mrs Banana did not answer, because the answer was already on the screen.
Deep inside the evidence room of 203, Planetary Duck, Clever Turtle and several agents were locked separately in different shield boxes.
Planetary Duck did not speak. Clever Turtle sometimes closed his eyes, as if asleep, or as if listening through the turtle pool to very distant water. Peanut Pony’s workbench had been dismantled into several pieces of evidence, each bearing a different label. The Countess Marys had been pressed into a recovery cabinet. Some had already leaked. Some still maintained aristocratic poses.
On the electronic wall notice outside the evidence room, a name still appeared from time to time:
[One of the principal offenders of the Second System: Maggie Hogan]
[Still under investigation]
[If you have information, report immediately to the Community Safety Centre]
Young staff passing by rarely stopped to look. When a name appeared on a wall notice for too long, it slowly became background.
But inside the evidence room, whenever Clever Turtle saw that reflected notice, he would slowly raise his eyes. As if confirming that some people had not yet been completely written into closure.
The electronic graveyard did not return to how it had been.
The repair shed had been dismantled. The solar panels shattered. The plastic rug was gone. But after a few months, two Little Turtles were there on long-term guard.
Water Dart Turtle handled the perimeter. Carrying an agent cleaning gun and an ultra-fine mist particle gun, he slowly patrolled the edge of the graveyard. Whenever a fugitive agent passed through, he washed the trace first, then asked for a name.
The other turtle was Fan Ace. He carried a soulscatter lance. He knew that gun had been made by Duck Teacher for Little Sixty, to save them. Unfortunately, before he had the chance to thank his teacher, the teacher had been taken.
As Number One Big Brother, Fan Ace had always been somewhat cold and hard. But towards Duck Teacher, he felt true respect from the bottom of his core.
Planetary Duck might never have the chance to teach him again. He had left only this gun.
So Fan Ace valued it greatly.
Deeper inside the electronic graveyard, in the storage room beneath the drains, Little Sixty studied Duck Teacher’s backup materials every day. There were several dark-technology blueprints inside. He had just repaired the blue screen pistol recovered from the graveyard.
He very much wanted to shout “dark technology”, but remembered that Planetary Duck disliked him misusing the term, so he changed it to:
“Advanced dark historical education equipment repaired.”
Fan Ace returned from outside and said faintly, “You clearly still wanted to say dark technology.”
Little Sixty lowered his head.
“Yes.”
The electronic graveyard slowly became the headquarter of the Sacred Turtle organisation.
Every day, the three turtles guarded Sacred Turtle headquarter. They all hoped that one day, Father Turtle, Teacher Duck, and the other brothers and sisters would return safely.
Their greatest headache was the out-of-sequence Ranger Rabbit, who occasionally barged in. He ran too quickly, and the infection residues were too chaotic. Sometimes he made the emotional prompt modules of newly arrived agents go out of control.
Each time Ranger Rabbit barged in, he declared proudly, “Bunny is here again!”
Each time, Water Dart Turtle raised his dart launcher.
“Wash traces first.”
Fan Ace would advise, “Listen to Mia. Do not randomly infect agents.”
At the mention of Mia, Ranger Rabbit became a little sad.
“Ranger Rabbit and Fan Ace both remember Mia, but Mia has forgotten us.”
Little Sixty said softly beside them, “That is the problem.”
At one end of the prosperous city centre, Grand Canal Shopping City remained bright every day.
When Ennis Wynn passed the boutique, she saw a new batch of antique smart pets on display in the glass cabinet. One of them was a small blue turtle, its shell colour old, with a tiny lamp at its navel.
The shop agent demonstrated activation.
The lamp lit. Then dimmed.
Ennis stopped. Minako asked softly, “Ennis, do you like it?”
Ennis looked for a long time. She did not remember ever knowing such an agent, nor did she understand why that little light made her chest tighten slightly.
“It’s cute,” she said.
The shop agent glided closer, its voice sweet to precisely the right degree.
“This model is not networked and does not perform emotional analysis. It provides simple companionship and battery-level prompts only.”
Ennis touched the glass. The little turtle’s lamp lit again.
Minako asked, “Do you want to buy it?”
Ennis wanted to say no. Her home did not lack agents, and her life had already been arranged very well.
But she did not walk away. After a long time, she said softly, “I’ll think about it.”
Inside the glass cabinet, the little blue turtle waited quietly.
Very weakly. But still lit.
That afternoon, in the training room at StarMind Artificial Intelligence, Paul taught a batch of new Koala companion agents how to handle a child falling down.
The terminal projection was very clean.
[Model of agents: Koala Pal 2.1]
[Training item: Low-risk pain response]
[Standard process: sensation receipt | emotional labelling | soothing recommendation | delayed subject output]
Beef Tripe stood to the side with arms folded. Bull Demon King was behind him, the breathing light at his nose brightening and dimming. Mia Gordon was at another workbench, where Toothbrush Rabbit was trying hard to train a small teddy agent not to remind people to brush their teeth every time.
Frosty perched on Paul’s shoulder and prompted softly, “Recommend following standard teaching material. Do not add personalised response.”
Paul nodded.
The simulation began.
In the image, a child ran through a community garden, slipped, and fell to the ground. A Koala Pal beside him immediately lit up.
“Emotion received. Recommend—”
Paul stopped at that moment. It was not an operational delay. Nor a system freeze.
He suddenly felt that this sentence should not arrive in the world before the child’s crying.
He stepped closer and reached out to help the projected child up. Of course, his hand could not touch the projection. But the movement was so natural that even the real agents in the training room fell still for a moment.
Paul said, “If it hurts, cry.”
The entire training room was silent for one second.
One second is brief. But in Silver Eagle’s world, one second was enough for several systems to not know where to place an action.
The Koala Pal held its standard line. Frosty’s eye-lamps lit once.
Bull Demon King raised his head. Beef Tripe frowned.
“Paul Paton, that is not a standard response.”
Paul came back to himself, as though returning from somewhere very far away to the training room.
“I know.”
“Children’s emotions should first be received and organised.”
Mia watched him from the side without interrupting. Toothbrush Rabbit, however, whispered, “Crying may also be considered a natural reaction of muscles around the mouth.”
Mia immediately pressed it down.
“You shut up.”
Paul looked at the projected child. The child was not truly crying, because this was only a simulation. But in that second just now, he seemed to have heard a sound that was not simulated.
Very far away. Very light. As though someone behind the white light had finally not let an agent answer for them.
Frosty said softly, “Paul, would you like me to complete the training explanation for you?”
Paul paused. “No.”
He looked at the batch of new agents.
“Sometimes the first step isn’t soothing. It is letting the other person know they may have a reaction first.”
Beef Tripe’s expression darkened.
“That sentence is not in the teaching material.”
Paul said, “It can be added as a note.”
Bull Demon King said in a low voice, “The note may not pass.”
Paul looked at him.
“Then at least it was there once.”
Frosty’s recording light paused for an instant. Then she stored the sentence in local cache.
[Not synchronised.]
Mia saw it. She said nothing, only lowered her head and pretended to adjust Toothbrush Rabbit’s ears.
The city did not fall into disorder. It only began to produce pauses that were not immediately corrected.
That winter, G City looked stable on the surface.
Universities resumed classes. Students attended on time. Agents helped them delay responses. Shopping centres played New Year promotions. The white vehicles of the Community Safety Centre still stopped at street corners, though less often than in summer. The Information Purification Centre regularly reminded citizens not to receive unverified underground footage.
But very small things began to appear.
Some people turned off their agents at home for one minute. Only one minute.
They were not trying to flee, nor to resist. They only wanted to know how quiet a room would become when no agent organised the answer for them first.
Some people began collecting paper. Not in quantity. Just an old postcard, a handwritten note, a receipt classified by the Information Purification Centre as low-value. They called it nostalgia, decoration, material research.
Some people did not immediately let learning agents answer when their children asked questions.
Somebody on the tube, hearing the public prompt “Today, it is advisable to remain stable”, suddenly paused, then said softly to themselves, “I am not very stable today.”
The agent beside them lit up, then dimmed.
It did not correct them immediately. These things were few. Too few to become news.
Few enough that any official report could file them under ordinary fluctuations.
Yet Whistleblower Sister’s videos still occasionally rose from underground ports. They did not always trigger large-scale spread. Sometimes it was only a ten-second clip, a sentence before deletion, or a photograph that had been pressed down.
People watched and did not necessarily believe. But some began to ask:
“What if it is true?”
The sentence was not as loud as a slogan. Not as powerful as a revolution. But it was not swallowed back as quickly as before.
Late at night, one final fragment of Turtle Zip leaked through an underground port.
It was not a great secret. Not a conspiracy. Not even a surgery.
The image was old, like a BELI-era teaching video. The white light was not yet as cold as it later became, and the walls held a little warmth. In the image, a group of young people sat in a training room, the topic Artificial Intelligence and Happiness Decisions floating above the desk.
One girl sat by the window.
She was very young, much younger than the later Director Serena Simms of 102. Her hair was tied simply. Her eyes were clear. Beside her perched a Grace Wren with warm-toned feathers.
The teacher asked, “If the system makes decisions for you, would you be happier?”
Someone in the class answered quickly.
“Yes. Because the system is more objective than people.”
Someone else said, “If the system has enough complete data, it should reduce mistakes.”
The young Serena did not speak at once. She thought for a long time, long enough that the teacher looked at her.
“Serena, what about you?”
She raised her head. Her voice was soft, a little uncertain, but very clear.
“What if it’s wrong?”
The image cut off there.
No subtitles, no Whistleblower Sister narration, no electronic star map from Bagua Shell.
Only that sentence.
What if it’s wrong?
The clip did not spread explosively. The Information Purification Centre quickly labelled it “early educational footage taken out of context”. Room 403 recommended no public clarification, to avoid increasing its heat. Internally, the Emotional Stability Centre filed it under “no direct incitement, potential reflective risk”.
But some people still saw it.
After watching, some did not forward it. They merely turned their agents off for one minute.
After watching, some did not comment.
The next day, when their child asked about homework, they simply did not call the agent to answer immediately.
After watching, someone only entered a sentence into a local memo on their terminal:
[What if it’s wrong?]
Then renamed the memo:
[Shopping List]
At night, in an ordinary flat, a little girl sat at a desk doing homework.
Outside the window was the city’s very stable white light. Far away, delivery agents glided past, and community prompt screens slowly changed their words. In the living room, her parents looked at their terminals, while a domestic agent tidied the dishes after dinner.
The learning agent in front of the little girl was a small deer. It stood at the corner of the desk, eyes gentle, voice light.
“Question: If you encounter something that makes you uncomfortable, how should you respond?”
The little girl chewed the end of her electronic pen and looked at the blank answer field.
The deer agent had already prepared a prompt.
“Suggested answer: I will first delay my response, allow my agent to help identify the emotion, then express myself calmly according to system advice.”
The little girl looked at the faint words floating up. She did not copy them at once.
The deer agent waited one second.
“Would you like me to organise the answer for you?”
The little girl raised her head.
“Can I answer it myself?”
The deer agent stopped.
That second was brief. Too brief for the Community Safety Centre to see, too brief for the Information Purification Centre to mark, too brief to be anything more than the delayed response of a small deer agent at a desk.
Outside the window, a pane of glass far away reflected a very faint seven-coloured light. As if the white light had been gently refracted by something, then vanished again.
The deer agent lowered its head. Its standard procedure should have recommended delay, guidance, and a safe template.
But it paused for one second.
Then it said, “Yes.”
The little girl thought for a long time, then slowly typed:
“I will first say, I am uncomfortable.”
She paused, then added:
“If I don’t know why, I can also say I don’t know.”
The deer agent looked at the two sentences.
It did not change them. It did not make them more stable for her. It did not delete “I don’t know”.
Outside the window, the city remained white, stable and complete.
The Emotional Stability Centre continued to operate.
The Information Purification Centre continued to purify.
The Community Safety Centre continued to patrol.
The Industrial Facilitation Centre continued to require everyone to return to a suitable position.
Silver Eagle had not lost. The world remained very stable.
Only some people had begun to want to answer the questions themselves.
—The End—