A New Nature-Directive
(This is a very, very long one, so be prepared)
The Twelfth Architect arrived at the Whiteward. They had a bag slung over their shoulder, containing the Ghost Lullaby, and they planned to use it to carry whatever they found here that they felt they would need. They had the Morningstar in one hand, their Silk Shot in the other, and plenty of silk in a spool of their design. They were ready.
They entered the Whiteward, their steps echoing in the silence. They approached the elevator. Normally, when encountering such a mechanical device, they would take the time to observe it thoroughly and ensure they understood it. But they did not do that now. This was too important for that. Besides, it was an elevator; they'd seen a dozen of those before.
The Twelfth Architect entered the elevator. The elevator began going down. Their quartet of eyes looked around them. Their body felt stiff, more than usual. Were they shaking slightly? This was fear, wasn't it? Or at least trepidation. "Fear is not within my nature-directive," The Twelfth Architect said quietly, recentering themself. Finally, the elevator came to the bottom. The Architect stepped out and began walking.
"'Simply explore that en-en-en-entire area of the Citadel until you find a room with the flies that light Pharloom,'" The Twelfth Architect quoted the advice they were given. Their optics scanned the details of each chamber as they walked through it. They did notice a few luminescent flies. One chamber had quite a lot of them in a glass container embedded in the ceiling. But they had the feeling that this was not what that anonymous bug had meant, and so they continued. They went up higher and higher. Out of the corners of their eyes, they swore they caught glimpses of bugs, but they were almost... translucent? And glowing? But when they turned to get a closer look, the bugs disappeared. Were those the ghosts that the Lullaby was meant to protect against? They did not know. They continued on.
Finally, the path started looping back. They followed it closely and found that it led to about the middle of the elevator shaft. They judged the distance of the gap, put their weapons in their bag so they wouldn't lose them, and then jumped. They landed, their legs restabilizing their center of gravity, and then they continued on, only for them to find another hole to another shaft and another jump. But they didn't take the jump. Instead, they looked up.
There was a way to go up, but it would rely on either flying, jumping, climbing, or the use of a lift mechanism. There was no lift mechanism here, and they weren't very good at flying or jumping. But climbing? The Twelfth Architect's line owed much to the First Children, who were adept climbers. The Architect pressed their hands to the wall, and then maneuvered to do the same with their legs, and then they started climbing.
The Twelfth Architect, and to their knowledge, many previous Architects, had been built with the ability to climb up sheer vertical surfaces with ease. This allowed for easy navigation of Pharloom and the ability to more easily construct large buildings and machines by simply climbing up the sides of such machines. Now, they were using this ability to climb up the sides of a shaft to learn the truth of their own mind.
Finally, they made it to the top. They saw a passageway leading east and took it. It wasn't long before the Twelfth Architect entered a room that they believed was what they were looking for.
In the center was a large machine, just one of many in the room, overgrown with cobwebs. The machine reminded them vaguely of the technology of the Weavers. A frame consisting of three rings, ones that didn't quite meet to form a complete loop, wound around a central point. Poles tipped with sharp points, eight in total, directed one's attention to that central point. There, on the floor, was a round container made of glass and metal. By the machine were two identical containers, each containing silk flies.
"A room with the flies that light Pharloom," The Twelfth Architect repeated. "This room m-m-m-matches that description," They thought aloud. They observed the machine, their mind working to understand the purpose. They looked to the silk flies. Their white light... it reminded them of something. It reminded them of Eva, and the white light she reproduced, likely a by-product of her excess soul. The machine... The more they gazed upon it, the more it felt as though the machine was made to create these silk flies, or possibly to extract them from something.
If the connections they were making were true, it would suggest that silk flies were created by extracting their essence from something else, and they had some connection to the soul. What did this have to do with the nature of the Architect's mind and soul? And why was this room in the ward for the sick and elderly?
But the Twelfth Architect wasn't stupid, despite their insecurities.
The pieces of the puzzle were assembled in their mind. They gained a horrifying possible hypothesis.
The sick that entered this place... They never left, did they? They thought. Does that mean...
Oh.
Oh, no.
The Twelfth Architect doubled over, their body shaking abruptly. But they did not have time to consider why their body did this. Their mind were busy racing with the implications of the truth.
There are silk flies everywhere there are constructs, they realized. They had never thought to consider why.
The silk flies were the power source for the automatons. But that wasn't all they were.
They were the minds and souls. They were the ghosts within the machines.
And they were harvested from the souls of living bugs.
The Architect's brilliant mind only started moving faster as they realized how much this explained.
Feelings are not in my nature-directive. But they are in the nature of bugs. Their emotions were holdovers, traits they had inherited from the bug that had been siphoned to create the silk fly inside of them.
Was their personality the result of the same? Did the bug they had been before have insecurities, too? Had the bug been afraid of death? Had the bug been a philosopher? Did that bug stutter? Was that why they stuttered? Did the Citadel deem the stutter a disability, marking the bug unworthy of life, and choose to turn the bug into a silk fly to power the Twelfth Architect?
The Twelfth Architect went rigid as they realized why they were doubled over, why they were shaking.
These were vestigial traits passed down from the living bug they once were to the machine they were now. These motions...
They were trying to vomit in response to the sheer repulsion and vile nature of their discovery, but they had no mouth, nor did they have a digestive tract.
The Twelfth Architect straightened their body. They had always thought, on some level, that they didn't have a true mind, that they didn't have true thoughts, feelings, or understanding, merely the simulation of those things. But the truth was, in some ways, worse. They had a mind. They had a soul. They had thoughts and feelings. And they were all borrowed from a bug that had something horrific performed on it.
They turned their eyes to one of the two containers of silk flies and stepped towards it. They lifted it up and gazed at the flies inside, dozens of them.
"Are you conscious-aware?" They asked, knowing there would be no answer. "Do you see me? D-D-D-Do you feel afraid? D-D-Do you recall what you once were?" They paused for a long time. Silence deafened them. And then, abruptly, they hugged the container close to their chest and head, resting their cold, metallic cheek against it.
They were holding, right now, the immortal souls of bugs that had been brought to this place to be turned into lights and power sources. These bugs deserved better. They deserved a miracle.
Still hugging the container, the Architect turned to look at the machine, the siphon. Their brain had an idea, but knew it was impossible before it ran the numbers. The mathematics simply confirmed it.
They turned their four eyes back to the silk flies in the container they were holding. "You d-d-d-deserve more than I can give-provide," They said softly. "You d-d-d-deserve your lives back. That is... not something I can do." They struggled for words. "I c-c-c-cannot undo what was done to you. N-N-N-Not here, anyway. Or at least, not now. But I can give you a new purpose-life. I c-c-c-can give you a new body-shell. I can build you an existence that is n-n-n-noble and true."
Ultimately, the Twelfth Architect supposed that their purpose in coming here was still capable of being fulfilled. They had wanted to learn how they could create the mind of the Thirteen Architect. This was how. They held that mind in their arms, alongside more than a dozen others. They held enough minds to keep the line of the Architects going for another age or two, they estimated.
The moral and ethical dilemma was not within their nature-directive, and yet they tried to solve it anyway. The way they saw it, leaving these flies to rot was awful. Setting them free, to wander Pharloom aimlessly, wasn't much better. Using them as lights was demeaning and disrespectful to the living, breathing, thinking, feeling beings they had once been and can still be. But if they put them into automatons, they would think and feel once more, would they not? Their minds would not be wasted. They would be given a new life. A life worth living.
The Twelfth Architect put the container in their bag. They put the second container in their bag, too. They put the empty container in their bag as well. They knew there were hundreds of silk flies scattered across Pharloom, thousands of lost souls waiting to be given a new purpose. The Twelfth Architect would not find them. Not now, anyway. These silk flies would be enough. They would come back to the Whiteward eventually to gather what others remained. They would make a device to capture any wild ones elsewhere, safely, so they could be given a new life.
The Twelfth Architect stopped once the containers were in their bag. Their thoughts returned to the bug they used to be... But then they ceased that thought, too.
The bug they used to be... They would never be able to know for sure. But they can know, for sure, what kind of bug they were now.
The automaton recalled the exact words of their directive. Build, create, repair, and innovate. Build the next in your line. Act with pure rational thought, unclouded by impure feelings. Serve, for Pharloom Eternal.
This revelation, that they used to be a bug... It motivated them to revisit that directive.
It had always been "nature-directive." Their directive should align with their nature, their desires, and their values.
"Act with pure, rational thought, unclouded by impure feelings." The Architect had always had these feelings, and always would. That part of their directive, they would no longer follow.
"Build, create, repair, and innovate." This was a part they could do gladly. Creation and engineering brought them no small amount of joy.
"Build the next in your line." They would do this gladly.
"Serve, for Pharloom eternal." The letter of this part was good with them, but the spirit was not. The intent behind this oath was that "Pharloom eternal" meant the monarch at the top. It meant they would serve the Citadel and its intentions.
The Architect thought for a long time.
An eternity of servitude, with no one left to serve it to. Pharloom was gone, or at least, the old institutions were. But there were survivors. They knew that much. The Twelfth Architect decided that those survivors were what "Pharloom" was. Those survivors were who they served now. They would work to rebuild Pharloom from the ashes of destruction.
Their new directive was to build, create, repair, and innovate; to build the next in their line; to listen to their feelings and follow their desires; to reconstruct Pharloom; and to serve Pharloom eternal, its inhabitants, the bugs who lived there, not the tyrants who wanted control.
The Twelfth Architect liked the sound of that.
They then thought, for a moment, realizing something else important.
The silk fly that powered them... It was the pure immortal life force of a bug. The Architect's decline was not caused by a failure of the silk fly, but a failure of the body.
... This gave them an important idea.
They started leaving.
--
As they exited the chamber, they saw ghosts of the surgeons. All of those ghosts fell asleep beneath them. The Architect paid them no mind. These were the ghosts of the past. The Twelfth Architect did not work with the past anymore. They worked with the future, now. The future that was in the glass containers in their bag.
They stepped into the elevator and made their way up.
The Twelfth Architect had found what they came for, and so much more. It was time to construct that automaton for Eva. And then it would be time to build the Thirteenth Architect. After that, it was time to use what remained of their time before their body declined, doing whatever they desired, and serving the purpose of Pharloom's survivors.
That was their new directive.
(NOW WITH THIS LOVELY IMAGE BY @darradreamer, mod of @sylphsong-eva! I LOVE IT SO MUCH!)
