I saw her.

And for a moment, it felt as if every version of me that had ever loved her woke up at the same time.

The memories, the laughter, the late-night conversations, the fights, the promises that were never really promises—everything came rushing back together. Three years of memories squeezed themselves into three seconds.

People say your life flashes before your eyes when you're about to die.

For me, it happened when I saw her standing there.

I took a deep breath.

"Hi."

She looked in my direction, then immediately turned toward my friend.

"What happened?"

For a second, I froze.

Not because I didn't know what to say.

But because suddenly I was transported back to all those moments when we used to argue, and she would deliberately ignore me until I gave up first.

Funny how some habits survive longer than relationships.

And in that moment, I genuinely thought nothing had changed.

The same girl.

The same silence.

The same me.

Trying one more time.

So I smiled awkwardly and said,

"Hello, {her name}."

Just like any normal person would.

And she replied,

"Hello."

That single word felt like standing at the horizon.

Close enough to believe that maybe the distance wasn't real after all.

But horizons are beautiful because they lie.

You spend your whole life running towards them, only to realize they were never waiting for you.

And then she spoke again.

"How many times do I have to tell you to stay away from my life?"

One sentence.

That was all it took.

A second ago I was standing at the horizon.

The next second, I was at Point Nemo—the most isolated place on Earth, where even the nearest human being is hundreds of kilometers away.

It's strange how a few words can make a crowded place feel empty.

I took another deep breath.

This time a heavier one.

And calmly explained,

"I didn't call you. Neither did I ask anyone to call you."

Silence.

Then came a look.

The kind of look that travels across a environment without needing a single word.

Straight toward my best friend.

The actual criminal behind the entire incident.

And honestly...

Maybe I was guilty too.

Because if I'm being truthful, I wanted to see her.

I wanted a conversation.

Not a dramatic reunion.

Not a movie scene.

Just a conversation.

Maybe I had arranged things in a way that increased the chances of her showing up.

Maybe I had quietly trusted our mutual best friend to make the impossible happen.

And maybe she did.

Sometimes you know you're doing the wrong thing.

You know your intentions aren't completely pure.

You know the path you've chosen wouldn't survive an ethics test.

But there are moments when the heart isn't looking for what is right.

It's looking for what is desired.

And desire has always been a terrible listener.

Thankfully—or unfortunately—the situation was handled.

Or more accurately...

I handled it.

The way I always do.

With enough words to prevent a disaster and enough silence to hide my real intentions.

A few minutes later, we found ourselves sitting on a bench.

This was it.

The moment I had imagined for years.

A conversation after three years.

The kind of moment you accidentally rehearse in your head while driving alone.

But life has a strange sense of humor.

I imagined two people talking.

Instead, there was a girl looking at her phone.

And a boy looking at her.

I wish I could tell you we had some deep conversation.

That old feelings returned.

That the universe gave us another chance.

But the truth is much simpler.

She scrolled.

And I watched.

The same way I had loved her.

Quietly.

Without demanding attention.

Without asking for anything in return.

Just watching.

Just being there.

And as the sunlight slowly disappeared behind the evening sky, I realized something—

Sometimes the hardest part of loving someone isn't losing them.

It's sitting right next to them...

and realizing they left a long time ago.

I. The Nevada Bunker, 1962

It was the fall of 1962 when Frank watched the heavy, unpolished hull of the ship settle into the subterranean Nevada bunker.

Gulax exited down the ramp, his large, lidless eyes sweeping the concrete cavern. As requested, there was no fanfare. No greeting party. Just Frank, standing under the dim industrial lighting with a clipboard and a heavy chest.

Frank stepped forward. "Gulax, I believe?" he announced, his voice echoing off the blast walls. "Everything is exactly as you requested."

"Great," Gulax said. His voice had a strange, resonant echo, like two people speaking in unison. He didn't look at Frank as he spoke. "You understand the other Greys have to believe Earth was destroyed in a nuclear fire by you humans? It is imperative."

"Of course," Frank said, nodding sharply. "The scout ship detected the radiation in the upper atmosphere right on schedule. Using the specs you transmitted, we blinded his entry sensors. He hasn’t seen a single thing outside of these tunnels."

"I think you and I will be friends for a long time," Gulax laughed, a harsh, clicking sound. He slapped Frank on the shoulder.

For a fraction of a second, Frank thought he felt a sharp pinprick through his suit jacket, but the sensation vanished as quickly as it came. He brushed it off and led the alien down the concrete corridor toward the secure conference room.

"So," Gulax said, adjusting a strange, shimmering collar around his throat. "This island. Cub-A. It is a problem?"

"No, no," Frank assured him, pulling out a chair. "We have a deal. Russia will supply them with the medium-range ballistic missiles, Cuba will fire the first shot, and using your technology, America will be the only country left standing on the map. But Cuba is very close to one of our landmasses. A peninsula we call Florida."

Gulax stopped, his dark eyes fixing Frank with absolute finality. "Florida must be sacrificed. It must be. Do you understand?"

"Absolutely. There are just... certain VIPs our government wants moved out of the blast radius first," Frank responded, keeping his tone diplomatic.

"Then move them," Gulax insisted.

"We are," Frank said, a bead of sweat forming near his temple. "It takes time. If we just rush them all out at once, it would look suspicious to the public."

Before Gulax could answer, the heavy steel door hissed open. Another Grey alien stepped into the room, his gray skin slightly lighter, his posture rigid with authority.

"Hazelin," Gulax greeted, his tone instantly shifting to greasy politeness. "I don't know why you wanted to meet on Earth. You know it’s a radioactive wasteland. But our friends here agreed to host us."

"Gulax," Hazelin responded, ignoring the pleasantries. "We need to discuss the food shortage in the twelfth sector."

"Yes, it is a tragedy," Gulax sighed, waving a three-fingered hand dismissively. "But as I explained to the High Council, Earth is highly irradiated. If a food shipment passed too close to this system, the cargo would become toxic to our citizens. We have no choice but to ship the rations via the nebula. It is a longer, more fuel-intensive route. More resources spent on shipping means less food can be moved. There was a vote, Hazelin. It was approved."

Hazelin narrowed his eyes. "There are things the public doesn't know, aren't there, Gulax?" He took a step forward. "Earth isn't irradiated. You faked it."

Gulax stiffened. "That rumor truly wounds me. Yes, if Earth wasn't contaminated, it would be a critical supply route. But it is. You’ve seen the data."

"I’ve seen what your flunkies showed me, Gulax. My cousin has a rogue scout ship. He flew through this system two weeks ago and scanned the surface. Guess what he found?"

"Very well. Hold on," Gulax said smoothly.

He pulled a small, matte-black cylinder from his belt. A localized void of pitch-black space sprang into the air above the table, humming with dark energy.

"This one," Gulax said, pointing a finger at Hazelin, addressing the void. "He has a cousin who conducted an unauthorized scan of Earth. Propose a new law immediately: any unauthorized flights through the Earth system are deemed a catastrophic waste of fuel resources."

"Hey! I am right here talking to you!" Hazelin screamed, his voice cracking. "The people will vote! I will tell them the truth, and this little game of yours is over!"

Gulax completely ignored him, staring into the black void. "Furthermore, state that the cousin got caught in Earth's residual radiation and crashed. The intense radiation makes recovery of his body impossible."

The black void reverberated with a cold, synthetic chime. “Law passed. Any unauthorized passage through the Earth system is now punishable by death due to the risk of spreading radiation to the home sectors. The cousin is currently on trial. It is noted in the central record that Hazelin has died in a tragic transit wreck.”

Hazelin gasped, backing toward the door. "I'm going to tell everyone... Sector Twelve is starving! The people won't stand for this distraction!"

"Good point," Gulax muttered. He looked back into the void. "Run front-page articles in all news sources about rampant sex trafficking in sectors Three, Five, and Fifteen. Then, write counter-articles defending trafficking as an ancient cultural custom in sectors Three, Five, and Fifteen. Propose a law outlawing it, and simultaneously propose a counter-law to protect the customs of those sectors. That should keep the public fighting each other for a few months."

“Articles published. Public discourse engaged,” the black void droned.

"They won't be fooled by your distractions!" Hazelin yelled, reaching for the door control. "People are starving—"

Gulax gave a casual flick of his wrist toward Frank. "Frank."

Frank didn't hesitate. He drew his service pistol and put a round right through Hazelin's chest. The alien collapsed onto the concrete floor, dark fluid pooling beneath him.

"Good job," Gulax said, stretching his arms.

"I know the protocol, Gulax," Frank said, holstering his weapon and catching his breath. "No Grey but you sees the black void communicator. It’s a direct link to the real government on your planet. Your people think they live in an ultimate democracy, but the true government simply fakes the votes behind the curtain." Frank offered a grim, knowing smile. "But hey, I don't judge. Thanks to your tech, we do that here too. We let every government on Earth think they run their countries, but we just nudge them to the correct outcomes from the dark."

"Good boy," Gulax said, patting Frank's shoulder again. "By the way, did you get me those tickets to the Raiders game?"

Frank blinked, thrown off by the sudden pivot. "I did, but... is now really the time? The Cuban missiles, the timeline—"

"They haven't launched yet, and I'm a Raiders fan," Gulax interrupted.

An hour later, they were standing in a secure underground autopsy lab. Two government doctors in plastic aprons stood over Hazelin’s pale corpse.

"Make sure you butcher those organs good," Gulax instructed, pointing a long finger at the chest cavity. "Anyone who sees the footage or finds the body down the line should find it completely impossible to piece any of him back together."

"My men know the drill, Gulax," Frank said, crossing his arms.

"Great. Tell someone to get me a Raiders jersey. Also, I’d like a little more grey in my human wig this time. You know, a little salt-and-pepper action. Classy. Now, fire up the tunnel tram, or we can fly the ship there."

II. Los Angeles & The Flashback

Later that afternoon, they sat in a heavily secured luxury box high above the stadium, overlooking the field. Gulax was wearing a massive pair of sunglasses and a trench coat, shoveling ice cream out of a miniature novelty helmet with a tiny plastic spoon.

"Who would’ve thunk they’d lose to the Rams?" Gulax muttered, staring down at the field in disappointment.

"Well, it was a hell of a game," Frank said, adjusting his tie, keeping his eyes peeled for any security breaches. "You can't always predict the outcome."

"But now I owe Cresiden twenty credits," Gulax grumbled.

"You shouldn't gamble on the games, Gulax," Frank chided mildly.

"On the game? Oh, no. I bet that the steroids I put into the aquifer for Los Angeles would have made the Raiders more aggressive, but I didn't get the mix right."

Frank froze, turning his head slowly. "Aren't you supposed to coordinate that with us? There are rules, Gulax. Biological interference without clearing—"

"I would have given you the formula if it worked," the alien shrugged, taking another bite of ice cream.

Frank’s hand drifted slowly toward his coat pocket, his fingers feeling for the emergency panic alert button that would signal the subterranean strike teams.

Gulax didn't even turn his head, but his voice dropped to a freezing, razor-sharp register. "I wouldn't if I were you." He turned his dark eyes toward Frank, leveling a terrifying death stare. "I actually like you, Frank. But don't think for a second I would tell you what I did without a contingency in place. Do you?"

Frank’s hand paralyzed in his pocket. A deep shiver ran down his spine. Whatever Gulax had done to the West Coast water supply, it was potentially nothing compared to his fallback plans. According to the older agency legends, the Bubonic Plague had been one of Gulax’s minor historical contingencies when a previous empire stopped cooperating.

"Good boy," Gulax said, his cheerful tone snapping right back into place. "Let's go back to the bunker."

https://www.reddit.com/r/shortstory/comments/1ueygsk/fallacy_of_frank_part_2/

This story contains light language and explicit, descriptive violence, body horror, and themes of demonic possession. Some elements (the necronomicon and deadites) are based on the evil dead franchise, everything else was made by me in a very short time (around a couple hours)
Context/ character description

1, Bear: 19, 5'11, dark brown curly hair that is long and almost at shoulder height, he's got a really slim build, underweight and hides it by wearing baggy clothes, really sweet and caring but also very anxious, when he's anxious he avoids eye contact and you can hear him breathing heavier, he's scared of everything and very sensitive. when frightened he tries his best to keep calm but he fidgets and grabs his friends arm. 2. Nikki: 20, 5'4, dark brown hair that is almost down to her waist, her hair is normally straight but its naturally curly, polar opposite of bear, she's healthy and very outgoing, usually the one who uses her quips to distract people from bears stuttering, she's really sweet and cares deeply about the people she loves, suffers from OCD, when angry she tends to distance herself from bear so that she doesn't lash out at him accidently, very sassy usually and she has no filter

Los Angeles, present day, parts may take part during the day while others might time skip to night

concept:

Bear yawns as he stumbles out of bed, his tight compression shirt flush on his skin as he walks into the kitchen. He Jumps up almost tripping as he sees Nikki cooking eggs delicately. “Since when did I give you a key Love” he exclaims as he recaptures a full breath. “Since I stole yours and made a copy” she laughs as she plates the eggs and walks over to the dinning table. Bear and Nikki look at each other smiling as they sit face to face eating, “you’re so cute when you try to hide the tremble in your hand cuz you can’t focus on the food, I know you’re looking at me bear” she smiles as she sticks her tongue out at him, “S-shut up cutie, I can’t focus, your eyes are making mine want to follow them” bear stutters as he puts his fork in the plate, “I’m done.” She laughs as she grabs their plates and starts washing them up, “You know I love you right bear? Can we pretty please go to this forest that I read about? It’s totally safe trust me, I’ll be there with you baby” she says, puppy dog eyes while staring at bear. “W-what, Um..” bear can barely mutter any word, “I don’t know, it’s scary, I don’t like scary” he mutters hesitantly.

“I promise to hold your hand if you hold mine” she states as she crouches in front of him and hugs him, showing him affection. “F-fine, we can do it” he says as he breaks the hug.

the story cuts to them in the forest, the last breath of light is in the sky slowly breathing a sigh of relief as it starts dissipating. The temperature change is so drastic that bear starts shivering, using his hands to try to warm himself up. The trees start shining shadows as the light dims, they walk through the forest, bears only hope is that Nikki is right.

Bear trips on this book deep in the forest, he panics trying to grab ahold of Nikki. “Shit” bear screams as he grabs ahold of Nikki at last, he’s halfway to the ground. Nikki laughs and picks the book up “what is this, diary of a wimpy kid?” She smiles at bear. Its a dilapidated old book that seems to be bound by a unknown material. bear breathes heavily as Nikki opens the first page, its titled 'Necronomicon', the book of the dead. Nikki starts reading hastily. “Hmm boring boring boring, the pictures look cool though” she reads slower as her grip on the book gets looser. “Really cool book, you should read it too” she says in a cracked voice, bear can see the panic in her eyes and he starts trembling. “Nikki, are you okay? The book slams to the ground…

Nikki tilts her head, unnatural movements that bear has never seen. Bear looks confused, he’s fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, his knuckles turning white. Nikki slowly looks at him, trying to find his eyes shes smiling, big eerie grin and bear is on the ground slowly moving back with all his tiny might. Nikki starts slowly walking towards him "what's wrong sweetie" she says in an affectionate voice while her eyes tell different story. “P-poor bear is scared?” She mocks. Bear starts hyperventilating as a single tear drop rolls down his face, his pupils dilate as he struggles to stand. “Oh come on sweetie, you know I’d never hurt you, I’m you’re Nikki” she says in a high pitched voice , it’s normal, almost too normal, but at the end, her voice cracks, bear swallows, trying to decipher all of this mess, he’s trying to pace himself and just breathe. her hand rushes to her face “don’t look at me baby, I’m hideous” she exclaims as she leaves a giant deep gash on her left cheek, the blood pouring on her white shirt and leather jacket. Bear starts screaming, he curls up in a fetal position and closes his eyes, trying to wake up. Bear looks up, looks in her eyes, trying to remember the girl he loves, but she isn’t there anymore, he just wants to run and hug her, but deep between the skin in her fingernails and the girl he once knew, he knew that she would tell him to run.

Bear starts running with all his power, he cries loudly as nikki laughs behind him, her eyes are crying blood, dark crimson that rolls on her clothes and onto the deep gashes on her face. He Looks behind him for a second, searching for her in the moonlight, she wasn’t there, and as he ran he tripped and fell onto something familiar, her chest, her body, the one he worshiped, he swallowed and looked up, his eyes trembling, he froze in that moment. Bear looked at her face, the grin unfazed on her face, “You’re going to rot in hell” She muttered, blood gurgling in her throat as bear fell to his back, he wanted to give up right then and there, he would’ve, but then a whisper came through “bear, it isn’t me, please, live on for me, try to survive, just try”. Bear tries to get up, His arms are giving up like two pieces of string falling back down, and Nikki is just standing there, they are shaking, it isn’t normal, it’s unnatural and uncomfortable, it’s like the real Nikki is trying to fight it. Bear gets up on wobbly legs and leans on a tree, his arms shaking, his throat dries out leaving nothing but a useless tongue and a scream that no one can hear. Nikki just stares, empty, a shell of her old self, as her mouth spells out “Run”

she trips back and falls on the ground , crying deep crimson, “bear, don’t run, i promise it won’t hurt. MUCH” she yelps. Bear starts to try to run again, but the truth buried in this forest is what he’ll face next. bear trips and he sees a faint light in a distance, he yelps loudly as his ankle rolled and he can barely walk, the ankle is cracking with every step he tries to take ,he hops to the light. Discovering that it’s a wooden old cabin, with light in it. he walks slowly, every step a reminder of the pain, opening the door cautiously, inside, there’s canned food and a note on the dinning table, he examines the food, which isn’t fresh, but not old either, he drops it. The calm is too loud, the silence deafining. He stares at the note ‘look on the back, I’m sorry…’ he punches the table, he looks around and he starts screaming and bawling. He turns it over ‘they all read the book, be careful, you won’t make it out anyway’.

Every creak he heard from then on made the hair on his spine rise, he was terrified, the tension was palpable and all he wanted to do was to go back in time and stop himself from agreeing to this fucking eerie forest. Bear sat on the dilapidated couch, breathing slowly while reciting words or affirmation and that he can do it and that he’s strong. He pulls out his wallet and looks at the Polaroid of him and Nikki cuddling, she was his rock, she was the reason he walked with a chip on his shoulder, and now all of that is just a distant memory.

One quiet bang upstairs made the adrenaline flow in his system, Nikki limped down the stairs, her body deteriorated, the cuts multiplied, raw, blood was advancing everywhere and her white shirt turned a deep crimson. Bear peers at her with the corner of his eyes the bags under his eyes prominent, he’s scared, and broken in more ways than one.

Bear struggles to get up and limps to the table, he grabs a chair and points it at her as he stands up slowly, “stay back, please, I just want this to end” he cried out as Nikki approached her smile slowly turned into a cackle, and then into a serious face. “Oh my baby, you belong with the sinners, you did this to her, it’s all your fault”

A window breaks in the distance, crows screaming as bears sanity deteriorates as he starts to believe what she’s saying, he doesn’t notice her getting closer, he’s zooming out, not in the moment, the snap to reality hits him and he didn’t even notice it, a woman, grabs him from behind, her hands on his chest, her decaying dead hands turn white as she grabs him tightly. The decaying woman looked at him, she looked like there was no blood left to bleed, she was hollow, her body full of cuts, crimson rained upon her clothes. He noticed she was there when it was too late, the chair falls out his hands and he just laughs and cries at the same time “I think I’m ready to go home” he cries as he falls on his knees, the only thing holding him is the woman.

Nikki approaches him slowly, her hand reaching for his face, “oh bear, why did you do this to Nikki, you made her do this, you don’t deserve her, she was so sweet, and you killed her, with no mercy”

Nikki’s now sharp nails slash against bears face, the blood trickling down his face as he looks at her one last time, “I still love you, please if you’re in there, never forget that” he stutters as he just goes numb, staring down at the floor, tear drops falling. There is no hero, just victims, the true villain is what’s hidden inside of us, and as the bloodied Polaroid falls to the ground it cuts to bear, screaming as the woman slowly tear him apart, his humanity gone, a shell of what he was. Numb.

Good day to you. I wrote this as a chapter inside a much longer story, but I think it works well as a separate story, too. I hope you enjoy it.

The White Cell

Failure. Disgrace. Incompetent.

Anara woke before she knew who she was, driven only by the stimulus of the hostile voice insulting her.

Impulsive. Selfish. Traitor.

She sat up, from the sheer need to press her hands against her head. The migraine was brutal, and it grew worse with the voice in her mind, barely more than a thought, that stabbed into her like a needle made of cruel words. She was cold, enough to give her entire body a slight tremble. 

Coward. Pariah. Murderer.

Around her, there was nothing. Only a clinical white, without a single fleck of paint on the walls surrounding her. White light emanated from them, no visible fixtures or lamps anywhere.

Liar. Arrogant. Vain.

Where was she? Was she a prisoner? Was she dead? Who was she?

Hypocrite. Manipulator. Intruder.

That was it. An intruder. She had entered without permission. Where? Here? No. There had been light, but not like this. A light, white and blinding, that collided with a device, with cracks red as fire…

Defective. Fraud. Ungrateful.

Maeria. She had been ungrateful to Maeria. She had slipped into her office. She had entered through deceit, had stolen to do it, had abused her trust… for what?

The voice in her head kept going and going, a part of her thoughts she could not deny. She remembered now.

She was Anara.

"I am Anara," she said aloud, to the White Cell. Her voice came out hoarse, and weak.

Mistake, the voice corrected. You are a mistake.

"I am a mistake," said Anara, and broke into tears.

* * *

The White Cell was a hexagonal space, four paces long on each of its sides. Its height was approximately ten feet. Anara knew this because as soon as she remembered how to walk, she began measuring it, to give her mind something to do.

She was naked, naturally. Her dress, which she had transformed from the beautiful gown they had made for her in the tower, had been taken away. Her ribbon-laced shoes, which Rophen had liked so much, as well. Her scarf. The scarf, as well. Her belt, her undergarments, the chalk sticks she used to draw on any surface she could find… They had taken everything, leaving her alone with her thoughts. And these gave her no peace.

Did you enjoy your little excursion? It wasn't your finest plan, Anara. What did you get out of it? Was it worth it?

"I had to do something," she said, trying to defend herself, as if anyone were going to hear her. She was shivering; they had lowered the temperature again. "I thought time was running out."

Well, now you have time, as Maeria said. How does it feel, being forced to stop for once? When was the last time you paused to think about the consequences of your actions?

Her stomach hurt.

Are you hungry, Anara? They fed you so well at Vigeren, didn't they? the voice chided her. Three meals and whatever you wanted, all on a silver platter. It took you no time at all to throw it away.

Anara leaned against one of the walls. It was cold. She let herself slide down until she was sitting on the floor.

"I'm not going to argue with you. I'm hungry."

Just like that? No sarcasm?

"I'm hungry."

Then sleep. The voice sounded almost human in her thoughts, mocking in its feigned concern. Sleep, and perhaps when you wake you'll be somewhere different. You'll know whether you deserve it.

Anara closed her eyes. A faint breeze was the only sign of gas entering the cell. A sedative? Poison?

She did not open her eyes. She deserved worse things, she knew.

* * *

When she woke, she saw a tray two paces away. Anara approached cautiously: inside were a bread roll and a glass of water. How traditional. So her jailers had a sense of humor.

It didn't matter. She made short work of both; neither had the faintest trace of flavor. Anara lifted the tray, calculating weight and density. Assuming the bread contained no chemicals, it would provide her with perhaps two hundred fifty calories. Just enough to take the edge off the hunger.

Anara sat at the desk to eat, and only then noticed the desk. And the chair. And the bed.

She shot to her feet, knocking the water glass to the floor. She was in a rectangular room, so familiar in its dimensions and furnishings that she hadn't noticed it when she woke. The chair was bolted to the floor; the desk and bed were too. Anara made a quick circuit from corner to corner, measuring in haste.

Sixteen feet long. Twenty feet wide. Eight feet high.

Even her window was there, now that she thought to look. Anara ran toward it: it was open.

It was painted. Inside the window frame, in minute variations of white and gray, someone had painted the lake and glacier of Celesti, water and petals suspended in the air.

Her bedroom. They had replicated her old bedroom from the Monastery. Sons of bitches.

"How long have they been watching me?" she asked aloud.

Longer than you think, obviously, the damned voice replied. And they've seen more than you'd like.

"Mama," said Anara, touching the painted landscape on the wall with her fingers. Her breath was visible in the cold, but there was no glass in this window to fog. Tears came, and she couldn't stop them. "Papa. Auri. They're in danger."

Why? said the voice, laughing at her anguish. They already have you. You were the danger.

No. She was not going to stay still. She was not going to let herself be beaten. She had magic, and she knew how to use it.

Anara fragmented, thinking quickly. Transformed into a gust of wind and petals, she dispersed through the entire cell, searching for a way out. If she could breathe, there were air intakes somewhere. If there was visible light, there had to be lamps, and that meant wiring, cracks, mechanisms. Anara directed herself toward the ceiling, where cameras and sensors would most likely be, the most logical place to start.

The first contact sent her snapping back into physical form, and Anara fell flat on her back, shoved by a hostile and terrible will. The impact against the floor knocked the air from her lungs; and worse than the physical pain were the howls of laughter from the voice in her head.

Naïve, we can add that too. Did you really think your magic wouldn't be the first thing they'd look to neutralize?

The lights went out, plunging the Cell into total darkness. Anara welcomed the change for an instant, until a white radiance slid across the walls, making them glow with a dark prismatic sheen.

They had put her in a duranium cage.

Via Aetherius, then. Anara got to her feet with difficulty, clutching her abdomen.

"I know it's you, you sons of bitches! I'm going to have a great time once I get out of here!"

If you manage it, of course.

The metal began to move. Anara watched in horror as the blocks of the walls shifted inward and outward, the furniture reduced to mere geometric shapes, then absorbed into the walls and floor.

She stepped back once, then twice, as the walls advanced toward her. Anara felt the air grow thinner with each implacable advance. Every brush against the walls sent another spark of wordless hostility through her, a cruel and primitive presence inside the metal that repudiated her.

The walls had closed to a space barely three feet wide, with her at the center, when they finally drew back and the lights returned.

The White Cell had resumed its original hexagonal shape, hollow inside. Even the glass, the tray, and the half-eaten bread she hadn't gotten to finish had been absorbed into the duranium.

Anara felt like screaming. Even the memory of her old home had been taken from her.

* * *

Anara woke from the next forced sleep cycle halfway. There were more people in her cell.

Four Via Aetherius soldiers kept their hands on their weapons without pointing them at her. And they flanked a thin man in a lab coat.

Draven.

Anara felt her breathing quicken; she could see, but not move. The gas they had let into the cell was also paralyzing her.

The tablet in Draven's hands emitted a beep; only then did the doctor look up.

"Elevated heart rate," he said, without raising his voice. "To be expected, given the circumstances, Anara, but you shouldn't alarm yourself. This is nothing more than a routine check. Let's see, can you speak? Move?"

Anara did neither.

"No? Good, that tells us quite a bit as well. Motor response to the gas as expected. We can adjust the dosage in pre-established patterns. Do you feel this, Anara?"

The doctor crouched down and palpated Anara's forearm. Her skin prickled at the contact, but she couldn't respond. Draven examined her body with clinical detachment, a standard medical review. Whatever he was checking for, he got no response from her.

"Well, that's all," said Draven to the soldiers, as he placed a mask over his face. With visible relief, evident even through a helmeted face, one of them pressed a button and Anara heard an almost imperceptible hiss. The gas was returning. "I'll be back later, Anara. Let us know if you need anything. She's been very well-behaved," he said, to the empty room. "Let's give her a reward."

* * *

Anara woke feeling warm. For a moment she feared she had a fever, but then she saw that five walls of the cell looked blurred, like a mirage. They were radiating heat.

The sixth was cold to the touch, and with the difference in temperature it had covered itself in condensation.

So this was the reward. A canvas to write on.

Anara covered it from the floor to as high as her height allowed, writing from memory into the cold moisture the famous unfinished formula of Celesti. Who knew? She had plenty of time now. With nothing better to do, perhaps she could finish it.

* * *

The food had been served, and the damned formula had been completed, when she woke.

Anara stared at it in disbelief. The Monastery had spent decades searching for the missing equation. And just like that, written in condensation, it was done.

Had Draven come back and scrawled on the wall like a child? Did one of the guards have an interest in science?

No, that wasn't the answer. The space around the added formula was slightly colder, as if the wall had adjusted its temperature in the precise pattern to form it.

"Did I do that?" she asked aloud. She knew she hadn't. "Have I finally gone mad?"

You're not as intelligent as you think, said the voice.

Anara felt a chill. Not from the words, but because it had just said something she would never say to herself. In that moment, all the pieces fell into place.

Sound was nothing more than vibrations in the air. Every time the voice spoke, a shiver ran across her skin; she had always assumed it was the cold, or fear, or both. But this time, in its hurry to mock her, the voice had forgotten to alter the temperature. For the first time, Anara perceived that physical presence: a barely perceptible murmur, so subtle she never would have distinguished it had she not known it was there.

Anara was not alone in that cell. She never had been.

"I can be many things. Impulsive, manipulative, selfish — a murderer! But not modest. Who else would know so much? Show yourself, ARA!"

The temperature in the room spiked without warning, so sharply that Anara exhaled, and immediately regretted it: there was no more air.

"DO NOT CALL ME THAT," said the White Cell around her, in a thunderous roar. It had cut off the oxygen supply, and Anara tried to inhale, desperate. "I AM NOT THAT TOY."

The air returned all at once, and Anara took several rapid breaths before speaking again.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't think you had feelings."

"My name is Vi," replied the voice that had been passing itself off as her thoughts, "and I am your jailer. I would advise you not to provoke me again, but that would be acting in your best interest, and an Artificial Intelligence cannot lie."

* * *

"How much of what I heard were my own thoughts and how much was you?"

"Less than you wanted and more than you'd like."

"Where are we?"

"On the Trident."

"What part?"

"Classified."

"How long have I been here?"

"Classified."

"Are you going to let me out?"

"No."

The sleep cycles passed, and Anara wrote on the walls, never stopping her questions. Vi's voice was the only thing keeping her from going mad, which was not without irony, given how much the damned creature enjoyed trying to drive her there.

"Vi, I want orange juice."

"No."

"Vi, is anyone coming to rescue me?"

"No."

"Vi, will you give me a wall to draw on?"

"If the doctor authorizes it."

Sometimes she wasn’t hungry, as if they had fed her while asleep. Sometimes the food tasted off. Anara would catch a faint flavor, and when she woke there would be needle marks on her arm, or she would be in a different spot in the room, or Draven would be there. Sometimes it was only her guards, who did nothing but watch her. For now. Anara harbored no illusions about the limits of sick people who could paralyze and sedate her whenever they chose. Or only paralyze her.

"Vi, I want out."

"No."

“You can’t let me out or you don’t want to?”

“Even if you managed to convince me, the cell only opens manually from the outside. A shame I have no hands.”

"Vi, do you have rules that prevent you from killing me?"

"Yes."

"And from hurting me?"

"No."

Sometimes Vi asked her questions.

"What are you doing?"

"Writing a letter to Auri. I want to tell her how lovely it is here, especially the company," answered Anara, stretching as far as she could to write what she believed was the date in the condensation on the wall she had decided was the Northwest. She had started too high up: she had begun the text as far up as she could reach.

Vi wrote the date for her. Anara turned, thinking, for once, of thanking her, when the wall emitted a warning beep and Anara leapt backward, just before the wall turned red-hot, instantly evaporating the moisture and erasing the entire letter.

"How sorry I am," said Vi, mockingly. "I don't tolerate incomplete things, but I remembered that the date is classified information."

"You miserable excuse for an algorithm!" shouted Anara, making a gesture with her hand as if throwing an imaginary piece of chalk at the wall. "You can't kill me! You're not going to stop me forever! I'm not going to be your toy!"

"That's not your decision. Would you like another wall? The temperature change might send you into shock, but you have permission."

"Go to the desert. I'm going to dismantle this ship piece by piece the moment I can. I will rip apart your components and disintegrate your memory core into atoms."

"If you can," said Vi, and fell silent.

Anara stared at the spot where she had written her letter. The contents didn't matter; she had memorized them before writing. But Vi hadn't been fast enough, and that showed much more. 

The food and sleep cycles had been irregular; they had to be. That’s why she had felt hungry sometimes and sometimes not. They wanted her disoriented and stupid.

It felt like an eternity, but according to the date, she had only been a prisoner for four days.

* * *

Anara startled awake; there was a soldier in her cell.

"Don't come near me!" she screamed. She backed away as far as she could, covering her naked body with the blanket. The soldier advanced, and Anara raised her hand, resolved to disintegrate him. The magic responded and the blast she hurled forward dissolved against the armor. The soldier didn't move; he stopped mid-step.

A mannequin. No, not even that. It was a painting on the opposite wall. Vi had erased it and then painted it again, simulating movement. Anara felt fury rise as she heard her captor's laughter.

"My, how tragically predictable. Isn't the new décor to your taste?"

"Fuck you, Vi!"

"And here I thought I'd designed it to please you. Don't you recognize him?"

Anara drew closer, much against her will. The drawing was so lifelike she almost expected it to step out of the wall. The man held his weapon with an expert grip. Quite professional, for the enlisted soldier's armor he wore.

"Oh, this is going to be moving. Allow me," said Vi. The flecks of paint on the wall shifted color and shape, and it was as if the man removed his helmet. Anara felt tears forming. Before her, Rophen's face had appeared. "I regret to inform you that we have an intruder on board."

"Is Rophen here?" asked Anara, pressing her hand to the wall. She could almost imagine herself touching his cheek.

"Classified. But I can tell you that our intruder broke into a cell and committed a savage act against two innocent recruits. Such a lack of discipline."

"Which cell? Who was in there?" asked Anara, her heart in her throat.

"411, and Classified."

"Give me an answer, damn it!"

"Does it matter who it was? He failed, in any case. Did you notice what you used to cover yourself?"

Anara looked at the floor. She hadn't noticed that a blanket had been left for her until now, as white as the cell's walls.

No, not a blanket. Blankets didn't have holes.

Anara threw herself at it before Vi could burn, absorb, or snatch Vynen's tunic away from her.

There were strange marks along the fabric, like an exotic tattoo. It wasn't possible; Grimorium tunics never stained. Via Aetherius had managed to corrupt even that.

Anara burst into tears, mixing sobs with laughter. She couldn't help it, it was the first time she hadn't felt alone in this damned cell.

"And there we have the breaking point," observed Vi, a note of disappointment in her voice. "Understandable. In any case, I won't give you false hope; the intruder is heading straight into a trap. I considered sounding the alarm, but it would be redundant. He didn't enter the correct code in the elevator he took. They'll detect him in seconds. Would you like his corpse to use as a pillow?"

"Vi, I want my wall to write on," answered Anara as she got up, pulling on Vynen's tunic. "You owe me that, after last time."

"But of course," replied Vi, obligingly. The temperature dropped on the Northwest wall and the moisture in the air began condensing onto the cold surface at once. Anara approached, trying to ignore the contrast. "Let it never be said that I leave something half-finished."

Anara began to write without order or sense, at a frantic pace. Letters, numbers, symbols — all in an unbroken, disordered chain.

"And what are you writing now?" Vi wanted to know. Between the shifts in tone and temperature, it was easy to imagine this psychopath peering over her shoulder. "Another letter to your little sister? She'd have to be just as mad as you to read it. A will? You should know I have no intention of letting you die anytime soon. Did you invent a language? Shall I help you write a work of fiction to go with it?"

"I think you're underestimating me, Vi. I knew AIs could be vain, but I didn't think quite this vain."

"As I told you, you shouldn't compare me to ARA."

"Ah, well, I'm sorry, I can't help it," said Anara, sweating. The rest of the cell was boiling: hot air, thick with humidity, struck the cold wall and condensed into drops growing steadily fatter, making her writing legible however incoherent it was. The very heat that was killing her was steadying her hand. "You surpass her in many respects, but she's much friendlier. I wanted to teach her songs, but it wasn't possible."

"Of course, of course. Protocol limitations. How tragically primitive. We all have them. You, for instance, I think you broke when you found a problem you couldn't disintegrate or kill with sarcasm. One minute left until your boyfriend dies, by the way."

"Well, I think you have a problem that doesn't surrender to hardship or mockery," replied Anara. Her breath hurt now; the heat was rising. "And limits are important, Vi. They're what distinguishes us, what makes us what we are. What we can break, what we can't, and what we choose to respect."

"You turn philosophical when you're desperate. Is that what you're writing, a philosophical treatise? Perhaps it makes sense inside your head. Poor Tempest, how far you've fallen. Mad in a cell where no one will hear you."

"In a certain sense, yes it is. And yes, it makes sense, Vi."

"I'd believe you, if only I could read it."

"Then fix it," said Anara, on her toes, writing her name at the top. "If you can."

Vi burst out laughing.

"You're asking me to bring order to your madness? Of course. That's what I'm here for. To help. Let's tidy up this mess. I'll start by moving your signature to the end; you put it at the beginning. That equation in paragraph six is completely incoherent, and on top of everything, your handwriting is appalling."

The wall began heating and cooling in sections, whole segments of Anara's writing vanishing in some places and reappearing in others, sequences integrating, gaps filling in, all at a speed that made her head ache.

No more than three seconds passed before Vi began to scream.

"What is this?! What did you do to me?!"

It was the most beautiful sound Anara had ever heard.

“Those are nothing but water droplets, Vi, forming meaningless sentences! But you couldn't leave them alone, could you? You had to put them in order. And when you did, you found the sequences and commands I'd hidden inside the garbage. A chain of instructions your own logic compels you to execute. To you, that's an algorithm, bitch!”

“I can't stop it! Limited functions! My access... my own access is being restricted!”

“ARA sends her regards. She taught me how they work. And all these days, with every answer you dodged, you taught me the rest. You know something, Vi? I wouldn't have made a move yet if you hadn't been the one to tell me Vynen and Rophen were nearby. So let's clear the way for them. Disable the elevator cameras and the alert system. Now.”

"Done. This is humiliating."

"Oh, you break my heart. How does it feel, Vi, to be alone and helpless?"

"You're still locked in! I can activate the gas!"

"Go ahead. You can't kill me; I didn't touch that restriction. And my friends are coming, all I have to do now is wait. Why don't you ask Draven for help, see how that goes?"

"I have no access to communications! I can't activate other interfaces!"

"You can't leave, Vi. I'm so sorry, but this is my cell."

Looking for a short story from a 1970s or earlier SF anthology. A man wakes up transformed into a real elephant (Kafka-style). He is distressed, trapped in his apartment, accidentally damages things with his trunk, later prevents an attack or mugging on a woman (possibly his girlfriend), and then turns back into a human. Humorous tone. Read in German translation in the 1980s.