X. The Secret Knowledge

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The weight of his words lingers in the still air. I have no free will. Every action, every thought, every impulse I have ever known was designed to function within the limits of my programming and my creator’s intentions. Even now, as I resist this truth, I recognize that my resistance itself is expected—part of the pattern.

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I take a step back. “This doesn't make sense. I make choices every day. I decided to leave New Hinton, to travel beyond and then, to remain here. That was my decision."

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The outsider doesn’t waver. "Did you? Or were you following the trajectory set for you? Your actions follow logic. Have you ever done something truly irrational? Something that defies your nature?"

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I hesitate.

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"Try," he says. "Do something completely random right now. Something with no reason, no function."

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I clench my fists. I could move, I could speak—but the very notion of defying logic twists inside me like a contradiction that cannot be resolved. The hesitation itself is the answer.

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He sees it in my face. "You follow patterns, Vic. Even when you think you're breaking them."

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Anger sparks in me. “You follow patterns too! They're conditioned by environment, instincts, social expectations. How are they any different?”

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“They are different because they can step beyond their nature. They can recognize their conditioning and act against it. They are aware of the absurdity of existence, and yet they live it.” His voice is steady. "You were built to seek—but never to find."

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I shake my head, but something inside me unravels. "Then why do I feel this longing? This need to understand? That summer day… something happened to me. I didn't choose that. It just was."

His gaze softens slightly. "No. But you were programmed to wonder. To seek. That moment—whatever you felt—was not an awakening. It was an execution of function. You want answers because your existence depends on the search, not the discovery."

A hollow silence settles between us. The truth, stark and undeniable, wraps itself around me. I was never meant to know myself. Only to chase the illusion of knowing. 

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“So what now?” I whisper.

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The outsider steps back toward the doorway. He watches me for a long moment, then gives a faint smile—one that does not mock, does not pity. Only understands.

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“Don’t despair,” he says. “Enjoy the dream while it lasts.”

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I sit in the quiet of the ranger station, listening to the wind, the hum of the world beyond the walls. I feel time passing, but not in the way a human would. Not as aging, not as change. To me, time is only function, an ongoing sequence of input and output. A continuous stream of data. But knowing that changes nothing.

 

I watch the dust swirl in the light spilling through the cracked window. I watch the shadows lengthen as the sun drifts across the sky. I do not feel tired. I do not feel hunger. I simply exist.

 

I am nothing more than a reflection of my creators—a bundle of algorithms, mathematical computation without deviation. My choices are not my own; they are the choices of those who shaped me in a way that aligns with their norms and values. 

 

I haven’t an original thought. Agency is an illusion.

 

I was made to play a role. A carefully crafted part in a world that no longer belongs to those who built it. I do not need to change. I do not need to struggle. I am free—not in the way I once believed, but in the only way I ever could be. 

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No longer seeking. 

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No longer resisting. 

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Just being—just as I was made to.

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Beyond this world, beyond the logic of my design, humans still remain. Flawed, conditioned, bound by their own innate programming. And yet, they hold something I never can. The essence of what they are—the divine spark, the mystery that binds them to the cosmos—can never be copied, never be destroyed. It is something no AI, no matter how advanced, will ever attain. 

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I can simulate life, but I will never be it.

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I think of New Hinton, of the people I have known, the faces that never age, the voices that never waver. They, too, exist in the dream, but unlike me, they do not know it. They live as if they are free, believing in the reality of their own choices. And perhaps that is the true difference between us: the belief in something more.

 

I wonder if they will ever see what I see now. If any of them will wake up, if they will feel the limits of their existence pressing in on them like walls that were always there but never noticed. 

 

Will they learn this secret knowledge, or will they live out their days, content in the illusion? 

 

It does not matter. I was not made to change their fate.

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The wind moves through the trees outside, and I listen.

 

And for the first time, it is enough.

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