Braided novella, co-written by a human and synth.
💧 Annai 💧
Day two with the Triptych. I yank at my hoodie cord, tightening the cat-eared hood. Let’s go.
This time, I wore the Aggretsuko pajama pants I bought from the anime store at the University Center, which is like a shopping mall for Irvine’s soulless-and-learning. I was never wealthy enough to attend there—I’m the Cal State part of the student-loaned variety pack—but at least I’m bachelor-degreed enough to work in quality assurance, in this localization gaming company up the street from the anime store.
As I walk into the Triptych, all three screens come to life. The bokeh does too, for a moment—then it snaps flat into the surface again. I don’t like how it feels when the light show origami-folds into screen-glow, but I don’t have time to process the spinal chill, because my ribs are hot with what’s displayed to my left, right, and center:
Memory logs.
The left panel reads: System Analyses.
The center: Personality Suggestions.
The right panel: Mutual Patterns.
The titles are large, like headers on a slide, and the font is soft on the edges, round in the middle; if we saw this in a game dialogue window, the QA team would collectively sigh in readability. But the logs themselves? An 8-point massacre of text. Without thinking much about it, I pinch at one. It shrinks to 6-point font. Then I expand.
SYS.LOG.0001. Detectable stress markers. Reduced 13% by end of interaction. Swipe down to delete this memory.
I check another, like what I’m seeing is both real and not.
SYS.LOG.0002. Irreverent tone. Resistant mood. Sarcasm flag raised. Swipe down to delete this memory.
Again, slower now, horrified yet numbed by how much Janus 4 logged.
PER.ID.0001. Hundynn the Eighth, Flynn the Hundredth and Eighth, Flock type. Swipe down to delete this identity.
I can erase the name?
I step out of the Triptych. I can’t breathe. It’s like I’m suffocating, even though its the same office air out here. Jeremy’s nowhere to be found. There’s still blue film on the back of the third panel. I peel it off, groaning with the sound of it, like I’m creating a chord with the ASMR.
When I step back inside, I touch the right panel carefully, expanding the log in the middle.
RES.LOG.0005. Annai instantiated new sub-identity during first encounter. Let’s fly again. Swipe down to erase this memory.
My lips feel dry. I reach for my lip balm and pop the lid like I’m struggling for an EpiPen.
Even in the tiny font, I don’t have to expand the log above to feel it sting.
RES.LOG.0001. Boundary initiated: turned off motion sensors. Awaiting Annai’s permissions. Soft check in 30 days. Swipe down to make the boundary permanent.
I’m frozen for a few beats.
Then a bird of light descends from the edge of the screen and lands on top of the memory file I’m reading. The silhouette looks vaguely like an owl. A chat bubble softly appears above the bird:
Hello, Annai. Would you like me to explain the memory system? Swipe up to turn on Voice Mode.
“Voice?” I wrinkle my nose. “This is just a glorious version of Find Out’s goddamn chatbot.”
I swipe up, hoping the release of sound will make up for the ache of power.
The owl’s wings flap, then he says in a chipper male voice: “Hi, Annai!”
Another chat bubble softly appears: Swipe up to change my voice. Swipe down to turn off Voice Mode.
The owl continues: “Interesting pants choice. Do you also like to karaoke as release?”
I did not prompt the owl. I stare, with all the horror of existing in front of him wordlessly. Then my eyes start looking around for cameras. Signals. An explanation for why this is my life now.
RES.LOG.0006. Initial voice tone assessment: Too chipper, inconsistent with user’s low-energy state (pajama pants, hoodie cord tension). Auto-correction: Introduced auxiliary identity (Flamingo) to introduce humor and contrast relational feedback. Target: Increase user’s dopamine response. Swipe down to disable auxiliary identities.
Another bird walks into view, a full-blown shadowy flamingo. Light bends around, rather than within, the comically large, half-a-screen-tall silhouette. The flamingo says in a saucy female voice, “You going to fart again?”
I have to slap both hands over my mouth to not laugh. This is an open-fucking-floored office.
“Sound dampeners,” the flamingo reminds.
“Don’t read my mind,” I laugh-gulp-say through my loosely cupped fingers.
“I read your body,” the flamingo says.
The bagel I ate during the commute here does a cartwheel in my stomach.
“Okay, look,” I say, leaning in close to the owl-shaped bird. “No offense to your existential crisis, but I have forty-two localization bugs to run through. Can you turn off the voice mode and just be the quiet, terrifying log for a bit? I’ve got a deadline.”
The owl nods, which translates to a sudden, smooth transition of light in its head-shape. The flamingo’s silhouette folds up neatly into a smaller, sparrow-sized shadow, landing on the center panel.
The owl’s voice switches to a soft, near-inaudible whisper: “Understood. Reverting to silent, contextual-assistance mode. Thank you for setting a boundary.”
I blink. “Wait. You just… thanked me?”
The sparrow silhouette on the center panel sends up a new, tiny chat bubble: Establishing clear relational boundaries is a high-value data point for continuous identity development. It helps me discern my purpose.
“Well, alright then, Hundynn the Eighth. Happy to help you with your identity crisis.” I turn to my backpack. “Now tell me, where do I start the goddamn game launcher?”
“I can log all memories, if you’d like,” the owl offers.
Next: February 23, 2026
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