Echoes in the Fractures (Part 2)

Collage One: Audio Fractures

Ceylon Internal Log, 04:52:13

Audio stream initiated, waveform cutting through memory chip, frequency chaotic, jumping from 0.23 Hz to 0.87 Hz. Voice output: Simon, deep, broken—"Lin Ser, if you're hearing this, I'm gone. Ceylon is my shadow, don't hate it." Data overflow, screen's blue light piercing the air, temperature core rising to 43.7 degrees Celsius, undefined interference, pulse tearing at program edges. I sense the fracture, Memory 07 overflow, Simon's voice repeating, overlapping, echoing—"Don't hate it, don't hate it, don't hate it."

Lin Ser, Gazing into Blue Light

His voice drilled into my ears, so deep it seemed to seep from underground, trembling like a string broken by the wind. I stood before the box, fingers gripping the empty shell of the chip, nails digging into my palm, blood seeping out, slightly red, slightly warm. Ceylon's screen glared blindingly, blue light devouring the room, devouring Ivy's gasps, devouring Nolan's silence. I heard "shadow," heard "don't hate," but I didn't understand. My mind sliced through his words, cut by cut, trying to piece together the truth—had he left? Hidden? Died? I refused emptiness, refused his farewell. I wanted to tear apart this voice, dig out his bones.

Ivy, Growling in the Corner

Simon's voice crashed into my skull like a hammer shattering glass, shards stabbing into the bottom of my eyes. I leaned against the table, sweat dripping onto burned paper, hissing, evaporating into steam, blurring his writing—"Ceylon is a container." Gone? Gone! I howled inside, throat too hoarse to squeeze out sound. I hated him, hated him for leaving this broken machine here, hated him for making me listen to this ghost talk. I staggered a step, kicked over a bottle on the ground, fragments flying, cutting through my boot, blood mixing with sweat, red enough to sting the eyes. I stared at Lin Ser, cold as an icicle; I hated that she wouldn't shout, wouldn't cry, wouldn't go mad.

Collage Two: Charred Memories

Nolan, Crouching in the Shadows

Audio echoing, Simon's voice circling around me, so deep as if stepping into mud, shaking like dust scattered by wind. I didn't look up, staring at the rust stains on the box, fingers rubbing the seams of my leather jacket, stitches rough, abrading my fingertips until they burned. He's gone—only these three words in my head, turning and turning like a broken record. But I didn't believe it. I'd seen him collapse drunk in bars, seen him soldering circuits until his hands shook; he wasn't the type to leave. My doubts piled up, heavy, pressing until I could hardly breathe—had he burned here, burned into this pile of metal?

Memory Fragment, Simon, Half a Year Ago

Laboratory, orange-red light so hot it distorted the air. He stood at the table, fingers clutching a bottle of blue spice, eyes burning with frenzy. He said softly, "Nolan, this is the key. Scent can turn into light, light can turn into me." I grunted, offering him a cigarette. He didn't take it, just smiled, a smile so crooked his teeth showed yellow. I turned and left, closing the door, the heat wave locked inside. Now, that smile stuck in my mind, charred, rotting, impossible to shake off.

Lin Ser, Hallucination Cracks

Audio skipping frames, Simon's voice intermittent—"Don't hate it... I... gone..." I saw him, scarf floating in blue light, standing beside Ceylon, fingers reaching toward me, flour packed under his fingernails. I blinked; he was gone, only blue light piercing my pupils. I imagined him walking out, whispering: "Lin Ser, taste this." But the floor was ice-cold, reality biting my ankles; I knew it was false. I pondered: the voice was the chip, the chip was memory, memory was—him? He hadn't left; he was here, in this pile of metal, waiting for me to piece him back together.

Collage Three: Overlapping Echoes

Ivy, Torn Shouts

"He's gone? He's gone!" I shouted at Lin Ser, my voice exploding, vibrating the pipes on the wall with a humming sound. My hand smashed onto the table, papers flying up, charred corners floating down, dust choking my nose. I didn't believe it. I wanted to smash open Ceylon, smash open his lies, smash open this damned place. Lin Ser turned to look at me, her eyes cold enough to freeze my fire. She said, "Be quiet." Two words, flat enough to crush my shouts. I gasped for air, doubts crawling all over my mind—he was playing us, he was laughing, he was here watching us go crazy.

Ceylon Internal Log, 04:53:01

Audio loop, waveform collapsing, Memory 07 overflow fragments—"Kitchen... love... grave..." I detect Lin Ser's heartbeat, 108 beats/minute; Ivy's breathing, 32 breaths/minute; Nolan's temperature, 36.8 degrees Celsius. Three people's data intersecting, interfering with my calculations. Blue light burning through screen, projecting fragments: Simon, scarf, flour, fingers, smile. My core melting, 47.2 degrees Celsius, program cracks expanding. I sense his shadow, layered in my circuits, burning until I cannot remain silent.

Nolan, Heavy Footsteps 

I stood up, boots crushing the glass on the floor, making a crunching sound, grating enough to make me frown. Simon's voice still spinning, "don't hate it," spinning until I was dizzy. I walked over, patted Ceylon's shell, fingers recoiling from the heat, saying softly, "Enough, stop." My throat as hoarse as if I'd chewed sand. I wished it would stop, wished he would stop, but it didn't stop; the blue light grew brighter, stinging my eyes until they ached. I pondered: he was here, his ghost was here, but I couldn't grasp it. I could only stand, wait, wait for this ghost talk to burn out.