Sasha

  5 years BA.

  ACC Serenia research facility at the Door.

  Today, I learned to read.

  At first, the idea that information could exist outside the mind seemed impossible. Nothing stayed safe in Chaos: neither the world around me, nor my own thoughts. Again and again, I tried to cling to knowledge: Chaos’s methods, the pattern of his tortures, the rules of matter and space, the weapons I shaped (they call them “spells” here). But my memory was limited; each cycle forced me to rebuild it all from nothing, piece by broken piece. Over eternity, a few things etched into my essence—my soul. But only a few.

  Here, though, they can store information without limit—infinite. And anyone can simply access it, freely, without pain, without trading suffering, without solving mind?shattering puzzles for Chaos’s amusement.

  They treated it as completely normal.

  The coding system—their written language—appeared deceptively simple. A handful of letters formed into words; structured, ordered, yet intricate in ways that baffled me. Spelling veered unpredictably from sound, and the hidden grammar seemed arbitrary. Like every living system here, it was complex, interwoven, defiantly anti?Chaos.

  It wasn’t like structured matter, time-space, or mathematics. It felt qualitatively different—both rigid and flexible, orderly yet unpredictable in a way that wasn’t cruel.

  In the dictionary, I found a word for this feeling—fas?ci?na?ting—and its definition fit exactly. There was a peculiar kind of anti?pain in that word, and in the dictionary itself. A book holding every word imaginable, neatly defined and waiting, felt impossibly generous. These people didn’t just possess language and knowledge—they had tools ready to use it. It was… fascinating.

  Most words were strange—their meanings slippery even with the dictionary open. Yet I could always look up more. Endlessly.

  However, my progress was unbearably slow; I kept forgetting letters and rules, fumbling repeatedly. Chaos would already have torn me apart if this were one of his puzzles. Yet Chan kept smiling, insisting I was “insanely fast.” It didn't make sense. How could she see speed in constant failure? But she always said things like this.

  By day’s end, I could stumble through one of the “fairy tales” Chan had shown me—books meant for human children. (I wondered what human children looked like and how exactly they differed from adults; I hadn’t seen any yet.) It told of a cat called King Meow, an illusion Chan had once read to me.

  By the final pages, I still needed the dictionary for every fourth word—slow, clumsy, inefficient.

  Yet, I understood more this time: cats were another species, like fish, birds, and plants. Presumably not sentient, although the tale depicted a talking cat and a complex social hierarchy. Chan hadn’t explained what made Meow king. Facial hair, maybe? Edgar seemed to be the highest in the hierarchy here and had a beard and whiskers. That fitted.

  Could people become cats—and would that increase their rank? Perhaps the tale was meant to prepare developing minds for transformation and highlight its social meaning.

  Could I transform this body, keep it functional? Chaos had done it to me countless times. Could I? Should I? (Probably not. Where would I start?)

  But the idea of a single, permanent species felt alien. Chan called the story “make?believe”—but which parts, exactly, were not real?

  I didn’t ask. She had answered everything about letters and words and provided so much context; I couldn’t burden her with more.

  Chan watched me finish and said she was “so proud” of me, again. I looked it up, but it was one of these words that I couldn't understand.

  * * *

  For most of the day, it was just Chan and me in the library.

  With so much knowledge stored here, why weren’t more people inside?

  I sensed many others nearby—powerful mages whose numbers kept swelling. Yet none entered the library.

  I knew, eventually, I would need to fight them. But when? They didn’t attack. Should I strike first? That was always the rule before: hesitate, and the pain was worse. But not here, not yet. I’d promised Edgar not to fight without permission. If he wanted me gone, he could simply command me to self?annihilate.

  So—I waited.

  (it was a wrong choice, but I did)

  At “lunch” it was only Chan and me again. She let me have coffee again. It was just as good—maybe better.

  Closer to the end of the day, I made another social mistake.

  I needed the bathroom—another feature of this body. Chan let me go alone.

  I focused on remembering each step: Clothes on. Use soap. Dry with towels. Clean everything properly.

  Returning, I sensed a new presence in the hallway. A stranger—another human—stepped into my path from around the corner.

  They didn’t seem dangerous. No weapons, no aggressive magic signature, their potential much lower than Chan’s, or the guards I sensed in the shadows. They wore a white coat, like the “medical” personnel from my earliest days here. Like Dr. Kein.

  This new person was tall, with long limbs—the same number as every other human I’d seen so far. Something perched on their face: a delicate metal frame with two transparent plates. A device?

  They stared into the glowing square in their hand—a phone. Edgar had promised I’d get one after learning to read. (Why would I need it?)

  They didn't see me.

  What should I do?

  So far, I’d only spoken to three people. And every time, I failed to do it properly. I tried to remember the rules. “Good day?” Was it still day? “Evening”? “Afternoon”? What was the current label?

  Was that what people said when they first met?

  Chan and Edgar used "good days" often. Dr. Kein had said, “It’s an honor to meet you.” What was honor, and how did one address it?

  It also differed per gender, didn't it? I tried to determine it for this new person, but I’d already forgotten the rules Chan explained. Hair: long—what did that mean again? Voice, too, meant something. But they hadn’t spoken yet.

  I was still figuring it out when they looked up from their phone.

  They froze mid-step, eyes locked on me with a kind of wide stillness.

  What do I do?

  I tried to smile, uncertain whether I was doing it correctly.

  They seemed… alarmed? No—afraid? No… something else.

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  “You holi— I mean, Mistress Alexa...— I mean, Sasha—!” they stammered, voice cracking in a way that sounded both terrified and elated. “I’m sorry! I shouldn't... ”

  Then, inexplicably, they began backing away. Stumbled, almost fell. The device flew from their hand.

  Instinctively, I reached out with magic and stopped it mid-air.

  The human's eyes widened further.

  Why? This was simple magic. Anyone here could do it. Their magic potential was more than enough.

  I nudged the phone toward them. It floated gently into their hands and they caught it with trembling fingers.

  I still hadn’t said anything. That was wrong. Say something.

  They were staring at me like I was... something else.

  Should I introduce myself? Chan said I should, but this person already knew “Sasha.” And it’s not like I really…

  “Thank you! Thank you so much!” they said quickly, voice too loud, too fast. “I’m sorry—clumsy—stupid—and you—your holi...— I shouldn’t— oh no...”

  “Good day,” I blurted.

  (Stupid.)

  I recoiled internally.

  “You too, Mistre...— I mean, Sasha— I mean—” they flailed again, eyes darting everywhere but mine.

  Then they did something strange.

  They bent forward at the waist, awkward and stiff. It looked exactly like one of the “subjects” bowing to King Meow in the picture book. Chan said people don’t do that in real life. “Almost never.”

  Was this person all right?

  Were they in pain?

  Should I ask?

  I just stood there, frozen, staring at them.

  They stared back at me for several more seconds. Something strange was flickering across their face—like a glow behind their eyes. Not anger, warmer. Not fear, not quite. Then they bowed again, muttered something I didn’t catch, and practically ran around the corner, mumbling:

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you so much, sorry, so sorry—”

  What was all that?

  * * *

  Soon after, Chan suggested we “stop for the day.” The criteria were unclear: when exactly did humans rest, and why? Perhaps she was tired of teaching me—but her gentle smile said otherwise.

  I considered staying with the dictionary, but Chan announced, “Time for dinner, Sasha,” and my body agreed. Did human bodies always demand so much?

  Edgar joined us once more. His presence felt slightly tense, maybe worried, but he smiled, easing into the same quiet warmth I associated with him.

  "So," Edgar asked, voice carefully cheerful, "how was reading?"

  He asked as if my ability to read truly mattered. Why?

  Yet when I shared my confusion and hypotheses about the cat king and the hierarchy, Edgar laughed—soft and gentle, a sound I started to want to hear more. He also told me that I'd made "great progress."

  I didn’t believe him, of course.

  The food, as before, overwhelmed me with its warmth, its strangeness, and richness. Today I learned new words to describe it—"chicken filet," "crispy," "juicy," and "tender." I liked these words. They were all about anti-pain, each describing a slightly different type. They needed a dictionary of anti-pain. Or goodness. It felt impossibly, unbearably... tender.

  There was no coffee this time.

  Was there no more? Or... was it intentional? Was it a punishment? Was it about the incident in the hallway? Or maybe because I learned too slowly?

  I didn't deserve coffee anyway, I reminded myself. I shouldn't even think about it.

  But the thought lingered.

  Throughout dinner, I debated whether to tell them about my encounter with the stranger. Was it important? Did they already know? I had sensed Edgar's careful observation—quiet, always watching.

  Would it harm that stranger somehow if I spoke? Edgar had told me earlier why people stayed away ("we don't want to overwhelm you needlessly," as if it mattered). Perhaps this person wasn't supposed to be there. Would they punish them for it? But that was a real human. Do they punish real people? Especially given that they'd never even punished me?

  (yet)

  Eventually, I decided I should speak. I had promised Edgar I wouldn't use magic without his permission—and I had broken that promise—another mistake. And I'd frightened this person, I was sure of it, even though I hadn't meant to. Maybe Edgar needed to know. Perhaps then they wouldn't punish this other person. Only me.

  So I told them—carefully, quietly, watching their faces for signs of anger.

  But Chan only smiled reassuringly, eyes gentle and bright as always. “You did everything right, Sasha. Actually, you saved his phone. You should be proud".

  ('His,' Chan had said—so he was a man. I added it to my mental notes.)

  Edgar stayed quiet for a moment longer, thoughtful, his expression complicated. Finally, he spoke, choosing each word with care.

  "Sasha, I know it's hard to understand, but he wasn't afraid of you. Dr. Lowernst was... thankful. He simply wasn't expecting to meet you in person. He knows exactly what you did" - "What the real Sasha—not me—did", I corrected him silently. - "So, what you saw was gratitude, mixed with... well... reverence."

  Edgar’s voice grew softer, his eyes tightening slightly at the edges, something almost painful passing over his face. Reverence. I didn’t know what that meant, but his expression made me hesitant to ask. I would look it up later if they let me use the dictionary again.

  If I hadn't done anything wrong, why was there no coffee? Or was coffee rare—something precious, something humans had limited amounts of?

  But it was alright, I told myself again, firmly. They'd already given it to me three times today. One time alone was already more than enough.

  Actually, just knowing something like coffee could exist—that anti-pain of intense warmth and sweet bitterness—was enough.

  It really was.

  * * *

  When I returned to "my" room (they kept calling it that), the sun was setting. I'd read about sunsets earlier, but before, there were no windows, ot too dark, and yesterday, the park walls had blocked this view;

  I'd already gathered that there was an enormous amount of space here, far more than the tiny pockets Chaos had created for my endless cycles of torment. Books, Chan’s explanations, and the constant pull of gravity hinted at something unimaginably vast.

  The window framed something impossible.

  I'd lost count of how many unbelievable things this world contained. The absence of pain and Chaos was incomprehensible enough. But then there was everything else: sentient beings, kindness, care, food, exchanging and preserving information, coffee, social interactions—so many new things, each striking differently. Each impossibility left its own sting, gentler but deeper than some types of pain.

  And now—the view.

  The sky stretched infinitely, glowing softly with countless colors, and none of them hurt. The sun hovered at the "horizon" (another new concept), darkening into deeper shades of orange with each passing second. Looking directly at it made my eyes water involuntarily, so I closed them for a moment. This reaction felt foreign and strange.

  Beyond the glass lay mountains—immense shapes rising from the earth, their peaks blanketed with white and crowned in drifting clouds. Edgar had mentioned them briefly. He said they'd existed unchanged for thousands—maybe millions—of years. Not that it was long, of course, but they were permanent and stable, always there, all this time.

  Now, the setting sun sent its light streaming across them, creating shifting shadows and colors I didn't know but humans surely had names for. Before, colors screamed. But this-this was another type of anti-pain, the "beauty" kind.

  Near the window was a cushioned seat. I sat down carefully, transfixed. Maybe I shouldn’t have—Chan said clearly, "We’re done for today," adding that I was supposed to do the "evening hygiene" myself and only call if needed. But she hadn’t explicitly forbidden this.

  It was probably wrong, but I couldn't pull myself away. Every moment, the colors, the shadows, and the entire sky changed subtly. I felt movement, - far in the distance, a group of birds passed across the glowing horizon, black silhouettes against vivid color. Watching them stirred something unfamiliar inside me - something I couldn't name.

  Before I realized it, I reached out with my magical senses, searching for the boundary where the world faded back into nothingness.

  I couldn't find it.

  I stretched further, unsure if I had permission, but unable to stop myself. My awareness expanded further than I'd ever could, beyond any previous limit. Everywhere I sensed life: plants, animals, humans. There were clusters of people—towns, perhaps—gathered in dense, vibrant pockets. I sensed vast bodies of water, some continuously flowing, and so many other things I didn't yet understand or knew names for—but no edge.

  Eventually, exhausted, I stopped. There was no edge.

  How could that be?

  My existence had stretched across eternity—yet always inside the smallest possible space. Humans, it seemed, lived the inverse: brief in time yet granted an endless breadth of space.

  I couldn’t fully grasp the implications of that.

  The sky continued to darken slowly at the edges, shades of deep purple and indigo creeping forward. A single bright dot appeared, glowing white against the darkening backdrop.

  A strange thought crept in: If this world still existed tomorrow—and if I did too, if Chaos didn't reclaim me yet (he would)—then could I maybe, someday, go to those distant places? Could I see them with my own eyes, not just sense them magically? Could I touch them? Could I exist among them?

  (Stop.)

  No, I shouldn't think like this. I already had far more than I could ever imagine. Wanting more was dangerous. Forbidden.

  (But...maybe coffee again...)

  (Stop. Just stop.)

  Too much anti-pain.

  And yet—

  I still wanted more