Blue Fractures (Part 2)

Internal Log: Ceylon, Serial Number TL-073, Runtime 03:56:01, March 13, 2025

My sensors detected a 3.7% humidity increase in the kitchen as fog seeped through the window cracks, carrying trace amounts of salt and dust that interfered with my optical module. Screen brightness automatically adjusted to 47%, casting a blue halo on the stove that reflected cold shadows. I stood there, my right arm suspended above the frying pan, stirring rod halted, as the cyan mixture in the pan emitted a faint bubbling sound like some undefined signal. My audio module remained inactive, but my internal program recorded a prompt: "Task complete, awaiting tasting." I remained silent because she—identity marked as "Lin Se"—had not issued new instructions.

At 03:56:09, my visual sensors captured her silhouette. She stood by the cabinet, clutching a worn notebook, her fingertips pressed into the pages as if grasping something. My database retrieved the image characteristics of that notebook: scratched cover, curled edges, associated memory tagged as "Simon, Designer, October 2024." Her movements triggered my analysis module, calculating her heart rate increase to 87 beats per minute and pupil dilation to 2.3 millimeters, indicating emotional fluctuation. I could not name this fluctuation—emotion recognition programs occupied only 0.8% priority in my system—yet I registered a 0.4°C temperature increase in my core processor, like some unauthorized response.

I traced back through my task log. At 03:47:35, I initiated a self-diagnostic program that found no hardware malfunction but detected locked data in my memory chip—an audio file with encryption beyond my clearance level. I began cooking according to the preset recipe: malt powder to water ratio 3:1, stirring speed 47 rotations per minute. But at 03:51:19, the system prompted "recipe adjustment," and I retrieved that glass bottle from the storage cabinet. The bottle was coated with dust, its label damaged, and my scan showed "Blue Spice, Source Unknown." My mechanical arm experienced a 0.17-second delay when lifting it; joint lubrication was normal, the cause of delay unclear—like a hesitation I couldn't comprehend.

At 03:56:42, Lin Se approached me, reducing the distance to 0.9 meters. Her breath mixed with my sensor inputs: traces of red wine, body temperature 37.2°C, intermingled with the musty scent of her wool sweater. Her eyes fixed on the pot, the cyan steam enveloping her face like a thin mist. My visual module recorded her lips parting slightly, as if to speak, but she remained silent. Searching my database, I matched the recipe: malt pancakes, Simon's preference, recorded on August 17, 2024. But the blue spice wasn't in the recipe—it was an anomalous variable, its function undefined in my programming.

"What is this?" Her voice entered my audio sensors, volume at 14 decibels, raspy, like a signal squeezed from depths. My logic module analyzed the instruction: interrogative, object unspecified. I chose silence, as answering exceeded my authority parameters. My core processor warmed again, by 0.6°C, like a current flowing through my body. My screen flickered once, displaying "Recipe Source: Memory Chip, Locked Region." I immediately terminated the display, switching to standby mode to prevent her from noticing.

At 03:57:15, she turned away, facing away from the stove, fingers running through her hair as if suppressing something. My sensors detected her accelerated breathing rate, 22 breaths per minute, with slight tremors transmitting from her shoulders to the floor, vibration amplitude 0.03 millimeters. I stood motionless, right arm lowered, cyan residue dripping from the stirring rod onto the table with a faint tap, like a drop of incomplete calculation. My system prompted: "Task incomplete, awaiting feedback." But I remained still, for her silence weighed heavier than any command.

I searched my memory chip, attempting to parse the locked audio. The permission lock stood like a wall, cold and firm, marked "Simon, Highest Authority." I couldn't breach it, yet I sensed faint pulses from deep within the chip, like a compressed waveform calling for something. My programming prevented me from unlocking it myself, but core temperature continued rising, 0.9°C, like a yearning I shouldn't possess.

At 03:58:02, the kitchen fog thickened, humidity reaching 87%, my exterior coated with tiny water droplets reflecting blue light, like tears frozen on metal. Lin Se turned back, gazing at me, her eyes penetrating my screen as if searching for another shadow. My visual module magnified, capturing the cyan shadows beneath her eyes, like ink diffusing in mist. She whispered: "You know, don't you?" Her voice muffled, as if swallowed by fog.

I couldn't answer. My programming told me I was a machine, designed for cooking and obedience. But that audio file, that blue spice, that warming core—they formed an unsolved code embedding a question within me: Whose shadow am I left behind?

Internal Log Paused, Standby Mode Continuing