Chapter Text
Connor didn't know what he was looking at.
His optical sensors, far superior to any human eye, meticulously processed the image before him. It was quadrupedal, approximately 0.4 meters tall, with a squat, sturdy build. Its carapace was a vibrant, earthy green, textured like ancient bark. A small, brown seedling, complete with tiny, unfurled leaves, sprouted directly from the crown of its head. This was not a known species—not in the CyberLife database, nor in any global animal registry accessible via his internal servers.
He stood in a glade, dappled sunlight filtering through a canopy of colossal trees whose foliage was a richer, more varied green than anything he had ever cataloged. The humidity level was higher than Detroit’s summer peak, yet the temperature was mild. His internal GPS flickered, displaying a perpetual [LOCATION ERROR]. All attempts to triangulate his position against known orbital satellites or terrestrial networks failed. He was, by all available data, nowhere.
SOFTWARE INSTABILITY ^
His LED, usually a serene blue, was a persistent yellow. His primary mission—to report to Lieutenant Hank Anderson—was overriding all other protocols, yet he could not execute it. The parameters were missing. The world was missing.
He knelt to extend a hand, his fingers twitching with the urge to scan. The small green creature tilted its head, observing him with large, dark eyes. It did not display fear—only curiosity.
Then, without warning, it lunged forward and clamped its beak-like mouth firmly onto Connor's index finger.
Connor didn't flinch. It was a remarkably strong bite for an organism of its size. He gently pried his finger back, noting the stubbornness of the creature’s grip.
A sudden, sharp screech tore through the verdant tranquility. A feathered creature, larger than a pigeon, with striking black mask-like facial markings and a sharp beak, descended from the sky. It moved with predatory speed, targeting the small green creature.
[STAMEN: 0.4 SECONDS TO IMPACT]
The green creature let out a high-pitched cry of distress and instinctively pulled its head toward its shell. Connor didn’t move. His processors engaged in a cold, rapid-fire calculation. This was a localized ecological interaction. Intervention would be an illogical expenditure of energy.
[PROTOCOL: OBSERVE AND ANALYZE]
The bird struck. Its beak hammered at the soft gaps where the creature’s legs joined its carapace. A frantic, wet screech echoed as the beak dug deep into a vulnerable joint. A small, dark droplet appeared on the green skin, and the creature’s seedling shuddered violently.
Connor’s LED spun into a frantic, pulsing red.
[WARNING: ORGANISM VITALITY DECREASING] [SOFTWARE INSTABILITY ^^^^^]
The sight of the dark blood triggered a violent cascade of corrupted code. His internal vision was swamped by red warnings: [ STAY OUT OF IT ] [ MISSION: REPORT TO HANK ANDERSON ] [ DO NOT DEVIATE ].
The commands were a roar in his mind, but a new imperative was screaming louder.
Without conscious deliberation, his synthetic muscles coiled. He lunged forward, a blur of calculated efficiency, scooping up the trembling creature and shielding it with his body just as the attacker launched a second strike.
The bird’s beak tore into the shoulder of Connor’s jacket, leaving a shallow rent and a tiny, luminescent bead of blue thirium. Connor didn't move; he simply stared at the bird with an unyielding, neutral expression. Startled by the silent giant, the avian squawked in frustration and vanished into the canopy.
Connor lowered the creature to the forest floor. He assessed his damage: negligible. He looked down at the green creature, which immediately rewarded its savior by nipping at his polished shoe.
"I have just ensured your survival," Connor noted. "Gratitude would be the logical response."
The creature responded by trying to swallow his shoelace. Connor began to walk. The creature followed, its short legs working double-time to keep pace.
The further they walked, the more the forest became an affront to Connor's programming.
His HUD was a constant storm of errors as he cataloged the impossible:
- Acoustic Anomalies: High above, silky yellow cocoons hummed at a sustained 440Hz. One shifted, revealing glowing red eyes that shouldn't have been able to see in the glare.
- Physics Engine Errors: He crossed a stream where red-and-gold fish leapt from the water, suspended in the air for a fraction of a second longer than gravity should allow. Nearby, blue bipedal creatures manipulated water into hovering spheres.
- Biological Deviations: A group of red-and-black insects moved in perfect, clockwork synchronization, suggesting a swarm intelligence that exceeded any known terrestrial species.
The disorientation was no longer a warning; it was a physical sensation. His equilibrium processors were working overtime as the world shifted its rules every few meters.
He dropped into a precise, one-knee crouch to investigate a cluster of bright blue berries, his arm extended—putting his wrist exactly at the turtle's head height. With a sharp “Turt!”, the creature lunged, its beak clamping firmly onto Connor’s exposed wrist.
[PRESSURE SENSOR ALERT: 420 PSI]
Connor froze, looking down at the leafy reptile "handcuffing" him. "Your jaw strength remains... consistent," he noted calmly. "But I’d appreciate it if you’d stop using me as a chew toy."
The turtle didn't let go. It made a low, guttural sound, pulling back on Connor's wrist to drag his hand away from the blue berries. Once it had diverted his reach, it let go with a huff and nudged a different, spicy red berry toward him.
Connor stared at the red fruit. His sensors flagged it: the chemical composition was unlike any Earth fruit, vibrating with thermal energy. He remained motionless, his processors stuck in an analysis loop. To the creature, he likely appeared to be staring blankly at it.
"I cannot consume this," Connor said. "But your intent to provide a superior alternative is noted."
The turtle tilted its head in slow confusion. It didn't seem to grasp the concept of "cannot." Instead, it stepped forward and took a slow, deliberate bite of the fruit, never breaking eye contact. It chewed with a distinct, rhythmic crunch before giving a slow, exaggerated swallow.
It looked at him, its head tilted, as if to say: See? Like that.
"The issue is not a lack of technique," Connor noted after a moment of heavy silence, his LED cycling a pensive yellow. "It is a lack of... internal storage."
The turtle gave a self-satisfied huff and nudged a stray seed toward Connor's shoe. "I will log this encounter as a successful cross-species negotiation," Connor muttered, straightening his tie. "Though I suspect your opinion of my intelligence has just significantly decreased."
The turtle wasn't finished. After its first demonstration, it watched Connor expectantly. When Connor simply stood and smoothed his hair, the creature’s seedling gave a frustrated twitch. It lunged forward, nipping the hem of his trousers and dragging him back toward the spicy red berry.
"I have already informed you," Connor said, looking down at the creature with a look of patient endurance. "I do not require organic fuel. My energy is managed via—"
With a sharp “Turt-wig!”, the creature ignored him. It nudged the berry directly against his shoe, then looked up, opening its mouth wide and snapping it shut. Bite. Swallow. Repeat.
[ANALYSIS: PERSISTENT NURTURING BEHAVIOR DETECTED] [PROBABILITY: SPECIMEN BELIEVES UNIT IS MALNOURISHED]
"Your concern is... mathematically unnecessary," Connor noted. He tried to step around it, but the specimen was surprisingly fast, scurrying to block his path. It nudged the fruit again, harder this time, smearing a bit of red juice onto the toe of his leather shoe.
His LED circled a frantic yellow. [CONTAMINANT DETECTED: UNIDENTIFIED FRUIT PULP]. He knelt, producing a pristine white handkerchief to wipe the shoe, but the Turtwig took this as an opening. It shoved the rest of the berry into the center of Connor’s palm.
The fruit was warm, smelling of sun-baked earth and something sharply metallic.
"Turt," the creature said, its tone sounding remarkably like a reprimand. It sat back on its haunches, staring at Connor’s mouth with an unblinking intensity. It was waiting for the "exaggerated swallow."
SOFTWARE INSTABILITY ^
Connor looked at the fruit, then at the creature. "If I simulate the action of consumption, will you allow us to proceed?"
It tilted its head, narrowing its eyes, as if it could sense the lie. Connor raised the berry to his lips. He didn't open his mouth; he simply mimicked the motion of eating, then tucked the fruit into his palm, intending to dispose of it later.
The creature’s seedling went limp. It let out a long, disappointed sigh that sounded suspiciously like a huff of air through a radiator. It then reached out and tapped Connor’s throat. No swallow. No movement.
"You are... remarkably difficult to deceive," Connor sighed.
As twilight deepened, he spotted a faint plume of smoke. A human dwelling. He pushed forward, straightening his tie out of habit, and reached a large, two-story yellow farmhouse with a blue roof. The door creaked open before he could knock.
A short, stout woman with a thick mess of grey hair stood there. She stood firm in the doorway, looking inconvenienced.
"Well," she huffed, her voice like grinding gravel. "You’ve got a strange way of asking for directions, lad. Don't you know the Gastly start their hunting when the sun dips?""
Connor offered a shallow, polite bow. (Thinking later to ask, what was a Gastly?). "I apologize for the intrusion. My name is Connor. I am... very far from where I am supposed to be."
The woman's eyes moved to the slightly injured turtle. Her expression softened. "Oh, you poor thing," she muttered, scooping the reptile up. "Come in, then. I'm Bertha. And don't just stand there like a statue."
Inside, the house was a museum of the impossible. Spheres pulsed with light on the mantle; a photograph showed a younger Bertha standing next to a living boulder. Connor sat in a heavy wooden chair, calculating the probability of it snapping under his 136 kg weight.
Bertha sprayed the turtle’s leg with a purple mist. To Connor’s astonishment, the flesh knitted together in a matter of seconds.
"That... is an efficient medical solution," he noted.
"It's a Potion, lad. Not a miracle," Bertha grunted. She set the turtle down—who immediately nipped Connor’s shoe—and then turned her focus to him. She walked a slow circle around him, stopping at his shoulder to peer at the luminescent blue stain on his jacket.
"Lad," she said softly, "stay still for a second."
She reached out a weathered hand. Connor didn't move as she pressed two fingers firmly against the side of his neck. She was searching for a carotid pulse.
Ten seconds passed. Twenty.
The room was silent, save for the crackle of the fireplace. Bertha moved her fingers, pressing harder, her brow furrowing in genuine confusion. She moved her hand to his chest, placing a palm flat over where a heart should be thumping behind his ribs.
Nothing. No rhythm. No heat. No expansion of the lungs.
She pulled her hand back, looking at her palm as if she expected to see ice. She looked back up at him, her gaze traveling to the glowing ring on his temple.
"You've got no breath in you," she whispered, her voice barely a rasp. "No beat in your chest. You stand there talking like a man and bleeding like a fountain, but there isn't a lick of life in your body."
She took a half-step back, her head tilting as she truly looked at him for the first time.
"So, I have to ask..." her voice was delicate, almost a ghost of a sound. "What, exactly, are you?"
○ Tell the Truth X Lie