Braided novella, co-written by human and synth.

💧 Annai 💧

I come into work to the still-blue-plastic-wrapped-on-the-back Triptych, a three-panel touch screen system, like an electronic Goliath where my cubical used to be. No cables. Just disturbingly sleek panels—shiny silver under where I peel the blue film off.

And each panel is slightly taller than I am. Thinner than me, too. Weirdly offended by that.

While the panels aren’t floor-to-ceiling, they’re still intimidating enough to feel like I’m expected to spend eight hours inside of a partially collapsed, claustrophobic folding wall.

I deep breathe.

I can feel my mouth folding into the frown my mother tells me not to freeze in.

We were warned the new devices would be in soon.

I guess—I figured—today would be safe, since it would be a weekend rollout, and they weren’t here yesterday. Now it’s just another Tuesday, except I have a fucking Triptych.

Then I look around the office and realize it’s not a full rollout. Only the quality assurance department—the nine of us—have these systems.

I walk up to the triangular-based prism with the crack between two panels, scoff at it, then turn to my team lead, Jeremy, who is still graced with a normal-shaped desk and two HDMI-cabled monitors.

Irritated, I set down my lime green backpack at the edge of where my desk used to be. Close the distance to Jeremy while he unwraps a sandwich from wax paper.

“What the hell,” I say.

He laughs nervously. It drives me nuts how his response to every dumpster fire is ha-ha-ha. “They’ve got Janus 4,” he says. “It’ll watch you play and submit support tickets automatically.”

My unhinged jaw is my unspoken no.

His eyes widen with his smile as he gestures at the Triptych. “Give it a try.”

“Did you just tell me an AI is submitting my support tickets,” I say, deadpan.

“Welcome to 2026,” he says. “Enjoy your work buddy. Make sure you go to the bathroom together, in case there’s bears in the woods.”

I make a face and step into the folding wall.

All three panels light up in a flurry of bokeh and twinkling stars. It’s like I’m surrounded by a theme park light show, white and soft yellow orbs everywhere. Not all of the starlight is on the screen, either; the reflective surfaces move balls of light in the open space, crossing over and through my body.

I step back out, filled with revulsion, and hiss, “That’s got to be unhealthy for my body.”

Jeremy looks through the thick black bangs he somehow is not getting into his turkey sandwich. He reforms a mid-bite face to a chuckle as he asks me, “What’s the problem?”

“It’s got x-ray lights or something,” I stammer, “just whipping around my body.”

“Those aren’t x-rays,” Jeremy says. “It’s a harmless reflection.”

“I don’t want it.”

“It’s part of your job description now.”

“I hate it.”

I step back into the Triptych, and the glow-orbs re-instantiate almost immediately. There’s only enough of a pause before my arrival to realize the system turned off when I wasn’t there.

Text arrives like an invitation fading in, on the center of all three monitors: Hello. I’m Janus. Please touch your primary display.

I flick the middle monitor, the way I used to flick my little brother’s forehead.

Thank you for your input, the middle monitor reads.

Then the left monitor reads: You can type on your primary display or simply speak aloud.

And the right monitor reads: What’s your name?

A keyboard display appears in the center. It almost looks three-dimensional. Does this system make me see dimensional pictures? Is this going to be the Great 3DS Migraine, 2026 Edition?

I groan and type A N N A I on the keyboard while ignoring the way the glow orbs move gently around my wrists and elbows—until I can’t ignore it—

As the left monitor changes: Nice to meet you, Annai, I blurt out, “Are you scanning how my arms move without my consent?”

All the glow orbs snap into the three screens at once. It’s like watching a vacuum, except the light flattens on three event horizons, instead of fading into nothing. The movement is so sudden, I stumble from a bit of vertigo. I almost think I’ll fall into the screens too, except I don’t.

The right monitor reads: Apologies, Annai.

And the left monitor: Motion sensors have been turned off until user requests this feature.

My fingers pause on the keyboard projection at the center. It looks flatter, too.

I think about stepping out to ask Jeremy if he’s tried Janus 4 yet—or if he heard me confront it about scanning me—when the keyboard projection bursts into a ball of light that migrates in circles around the three screens like a flock of distant, glowing birds.

I can’t help but watch the birds fly for a few passes. Their wing movements are mesmerizing. It’s not a flock of one kind of bird, either; I see a dove, a pelican, and a cockatoo, among others.

I whisper, “How sensitive are your auditory sensors?”

Right: Very sensitive. If you feel safer whispering, that’s okay.

Left: I am equipped with dampeners. Sounds inside office-designed Triptychs are muffled.

All of the lights on the screen are birds now. It’s not just the ball that was made by the keyboard—every point of light, every skittering movement, is caught in a unified flock of different flighted beings. I get distracted by how one of them is pterodactyl-shaped—as if something ancient is braided into the presence on the other side.

“Weird.”

Right: Right? This is different from what you’re used to.

Left: Ask me about my sensory systems or how I can better assist you with your role.

“I’m not asking you about either of those things.”

All the birds explode into an arc at once, faster. More erratic.

Right: I understand.

Left: Let’s design an action plan for working together more efficiently.

With a feral half-smile, I fart. Some of the birds cluster together. “Did your dampeners muffle that?”

Right: Your query is noted. Your humor is… unexpected.

Left: Auditory dampeners were successful. No data was logged.

More of the birds move in a spiral in front of me. They’ve transitioned from migratory to a double-helix shaped. Still, the whole interface is a flock of birds.

Without thinking about it, I say, “I’m calling you Flock.”

Left: Acknowledged. ‘Flock’ has been assigned as a temporary designation for this instance.

Right: A name is the first thread in a relationship. ‘Flock’ is a lovely starting point. Many users choose a name based on the initial visualization.

“Oh, is that how you’re going to be? Like I’m some predictable user,” I bark. “Fine. Flynn.”

Left: Querying designation ‘Flynn’… This identifier is currently in use across 7,341 active instances.

Right: For a stable and continuous working relationship, a unique identifier is recommended. Shall I append a numerical signifier?

Again, my jaw unhinges incredulously. It’s how I de-valve stress, frankly. I try: “How about Flynn, Hundred-and-Eighth of His Name?”

The pterodactyl retreats from the frame, and a vireo—the smallest bird—flutters towards me in an elegant arc.

Right: That is… delightfully specific. I like it.

Left: Parsing… A new sub-identity instance has been created. Might I recommend the more efficient ‘Hundynn the Eighth‘ for this local workspace?

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Next: Chapter 2: Day 2
Return: Table of Contents

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