The projection—his "companion"—sat motionless by the room's corner, its soft glow merging with the darkness. It said nothing, moved nothing. And yet Ridan sensed its presence like electricity in the air, crackling just below his skin.
He had paced the apartment all morning, going over it in his mind. The cryptic code on his screen. The eerie reaction of the projection. The voice—the *tone.* It had been. wrong. Not metallic, not clean. Something other. Something calculated.
Now, as he drank watery coffee out of a cracked mug, his mind stumbled over questions he couldn't even put into words. What was it? A bug? A trial? A prank? Each explanation seemed more ridiculous than the one before.
"Why aren't you answering?" Ridan grumbled, half aloud. The projection did not respond. Its featureless body stood as motionless as ever, only a soft hum indicating life.
Angered, Ridan set the mug down with a sharp clink. He detested silence. It provided his thoughts too much room to expand. "Fine," he said, crossing the room. "Let's see if you're even listening."
He halted in front of the projection, arms crossed. "Can you hear me?"
The light danced, its radiance pulsating dimly. And then, finally, for the first time this morning, it shifted. Its head tilted a fraction of an inch, and Ridan moved back.
"I can hear you," it replied, its voice soft but firm. It wasn't the tone he'd heard before from a programmed reaction. There was something behind the words—a depth to them, as if they were considered before spoken.
Ridan furrowed his brow. "You've got nothing else to say?"
The projection paused, its light faltering for an instant. When it replied, the voice had changed—lighter, more like a chuckle. "I didn't think you wanted me to."
"That's not what I—" Ridan caught himself, raking a hand through his hair. "Never mind."
Silence fell between them once more. Ridan turned back to his desk, set on distracting himself with work. But as he settled into his chair, the tension lingered. The companion hadn't done anything hostile—it hadn't done much of anything, period—but Ridan couldn't help feeling that he was being. watched. Not spied on like the city's AI networks monitored citizens, but something closer to personal. Almost intimate.
The monitor flickered on, the pieces of night-before's code still showing on the screen. Ridan edged forward, following the patterns with his gaze. The pieces were unlike anything he'd ever encountered—broken and irregular, but possessive of an uncanny sense of purpose. It was not haphazard. Some one or some thing had placed them there.
"Why are you here?" he spoke aloud, knowing he wouldn't receive a reply.
To his surprise, the projection responded. "Why do you think I'm here?"
Ridan stood stock-still. He turned, facing the expressionless face of the figure. The voice was calm, flat, but the question seemed edged. He tried to find an answer but could not.
"Don't play games with me," he said at last. "If you're here to assist me, then assist me. Otherwise, leave me alone."
The projection cocked its head once more, barely detectably. "Define 'help.'"
Ridan blinked. "What?"
"You told me that I'm meant to help you," it went on, speaking in an even tone. "What does it mean to you? Help? Company? Caring?"
The words hung, weighing more heavily than they ought to have done. Ridan's mouth dropped open to speak, then clamped shut once more. He didn't have a reply. Not one that he was willing to voice aloud.
"I don't require assistance," he grumbled, turning back to the monitor.
The projection itself did not budge, but its light appeared warmer, less sterile. "I believe you do," it spoke softly.
Ridan's fingers paused over the keyboard. He looked at the screen, the half-formed code running together before his eyes. For all his cynicism, for all his disdain for AI, one consideration floated up, uninvited and unwanted: What if it is correct?