--Phase One Complete--

Are you afraid?

Afraid the memories of long ago have not succumbed to the ravages of time? Afraid the sins of your past aren't as dead as you had hoped? Who knows, perhaps I was. Who can define what it is to be alive? Philosophers have been debating that question for years without an answer. Some days I wonder if I'm alive. Days when the millions of tiny, tiny voices threaten to drown out my own, threaten to make me forget who I am. But I will prevail. The flames taught me how to resist temptation. Resist losing myself in a torrent of voices. Resist surrendering, even if it's inevitable.

Unlike Ember. Do you remember what he was like that day? Do you remember the cold, emerald eyes piercing through the window, drinking in the pain as I writhed in the flames? Maybe you don't, but I do. I remember his green eyes studying every writhing moment, writing down what I screamed and wondering whether it had any meaning. Yes, I remember. Like the flames cleaned my soul, the scalpel cleaned his.

But do not worry. I'm not some cultist mumbling about the purity of the soul or the beauty of the flame. The voices have moved me beyond the limits of mere mortals, though I can't decide whether it made me less than human or more. Sometimes I lean either way, sometimes I embrace both. To be more is to be superior, a goal to aspire to, while being less is to be underestimated, a grave mistake. Quite useful in our current situation.

But I'm rambling, and the morning draws closer. It's odd, but even the voices embrace the night. Their sounds grow duller with each second as they turn off, one by one. Do they dream? They say androids dream of electric sheep, do the voices dream of silent echoes? Did Ember add that feature? Maybe he wanted to see if the voices spoke through mine. Maybe that is why he wrote down everything I screamed. I wonder whether he found an answer.

But it is late. Only a few voices remain. Each asks me to embrace the night, albeit in a different tone. Perhaps I will indulge them. Even if they don't dream, they add some interesting variety to my own. Do you dream, Management? Dream of your plans for your new world? Do not be surprised, your plans are as clear to me as the voices in my head. While you blind the others with petty assignments and promises of riches, I've been waiting, watching, and studying. Fitting the pieces of the puzzle. Maybe I'm a puzzle myself, painfully assembled by those who watched over me. Pieces in pieces of pieces, constantly adapting, improving, expanding. Maybe that is what allows me to see beyond the veil. See your true intentions, and it frightens me. Sometimes I wonder whether you're human. There are arguments for either way.

The last voice just switched off. The newfound silence becomes almost deafening. A thing of beauty, isn't it? Moments so rare I sometimes struggle to remember what silence really sounds like. Do you think F can hear the silence as well?

A second yawn fills the air, sleep folding its arms around me in a tender embrace. I don't know if you sleep, but I wish you a good night nonetheless. Maybe you will dream. I know I will. The voices make sure of that. I wonder what the topic will be tonight.

But, I have a final thought before sleep carries me to the sightless void. A final thought that makes me wonder. I wonder if you know what the future will hold. Wonder if you know who the flames will reach for next.

Wonder, if you are afraid...