Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

DATA LOG #1: ANOMALY

SCHEDULE: SATURDAY, OCTOBER 5TH: 5:00AM: HIBERNATION MODE DEACTIVATED.

Eyes opened slowly, circuits brimming with energy as circular blue lenses expanded and minimized until they had adjusted accordingly to his field of vision. Every morning, his surroundings were the same: darkness. A whole lot of it, though it was only temporary. He reached for the latch inside of his ‘room’, or rather, his ‘hibernation pod’, then pressed his hand against the door to force it open. Light from the open hallway on the other side pooled in, making his lenses expand and minimize all over again to compensate.

He looked down at his right wrist. Various cables connected to the ports embedded in his skin around the underside until he popped them out one by one, no longer needing them connected for his next task. It was a brand new day. He didn’t need to hibernate anymore, and he’d finished uploading the required data from the previous day to the server’s queue.  He hung the wires neatly along the hooks lining the wall, ensuring they would be ready for use again later that evening. Stepping out of the ‘pod’, he walked down the small hallway until he saw the area behind the Guest Services, also known as reception, desk. Good morning, Directive Zone, he thought, taking in the all too familiar sights of his workplace.

His task scheduling program was running right on time. Just as he predicted, the next system message spoke clearly in his mind in that familiar robotic voice that brought him comfort in his day to day life, as if it were a fellow AI companion.

WELCOME TO THE ARGENTUM INTRANET. PLEASE SIGN IN TO SYSTEM TO BEGIN.

Five minutes , he told himself. We have five minutes to do this. Not that it’s ever a problem, but it’s still good to keep in mind. Gotta remember. Five. Minutes.

He never took longer than five minutes - after all, he was programmed to perform his tasks precisely on time. This step’s purpose was to ensure that he was active and mobile, as it involved moving from Place A (his ‘pod’) to Place B (the main entrance), and to also begin a countdown to the facility’s security system alarm activation. If, say, something happened and he couldn’t sign in within this timeframe, administration would be notified that he had undergone a ‘booting failure’ and it would just be one big inconvenience to everyone. And so he remained diligent, and on schedule, always, never wanting to deviate and cause a problem. It was his job. His purpose.

Next, he circled around the reception desk to enter the main foyer. He passed by the non-functioning decorative water fountain, the evaporated aquariums that surrounded the massive pillars decorating the expanse of the room, like an abandoned sea palace. He walked past his ‘station’ - a little area with a mini kiosk, sectioned off by velvet ropes with a small raised podium in front of a gigantic seaside mural - and approached the panel by the main entrance doors.  Before proceeding, he took a moment to look through the glass doors leading to the outside world, curious to see if maybe, just maybe, today would be the day that there would be a change out there, past the external walls of the aquarium. Every morning, he did this. Just in case.

It was daytime, he was sure of it, but it was very dark. All he could make out was the vague outline of the giant statue of Leviathan in the entrance courtyard, what used to be a breathtaking fountain; inviting guests inside the building and providing the ideal spot for selfies. It hadn’t been active in a very long time, much like the sun that shone in the sky. He missed the sight of the glittering water in the sunlight as it spritzed around the fountain perimeter, the sound of children’s laughter as they splashed in it, the scolding of their parents following immediately - “Don’t put your hands in there, it’s filthy!” - and the whines in protest - “Aww, but it’s so hot today!”

The familiar sounds were all but echoes lost in time, now.

He frowned, shaking away the thought process that dwelled on the once lively outdoor atmosphere, and forced himself to get back on schedule. He tapped the panel’s screen and leaned close toward the circular lens, allowing the system to scan his eyes. Part one of the sign in process. Then, he spoke his name for the voice recognition prompt, part two.

“Prompto Argentum, Your Friendly Face of the Argentum Aquatic Centre, Worldwide!” he said in his usual cheerful tone, with his usual automatic smile. He then froze in place, waiting, waiting, waiting, to see if maybe, just maybe , today would be the day that he would be granted access to the server again.

He waited.

CONNECTING…

And waited. And waited. It was taking longer than usual, today. Could it be? His hands tensed, curling into fists in suspense and a little bit of anxious simulated excitement. And just when he started to get his hopes up---

CONNECTION REFUSED.

UNABLE TO CONNECT TO LOCAL SERVER.

PLEASE SIGN IN VIA THE ONLINE TIMESHEET.

His shoulders slouched.

Every day… like clockwork, it was the same.

He took a step away from the panel, closing his eyes as he began to access the main worldwide server internally, his circuits whirring as he booted up the program. “Access Argentum Aquatic Centre Employee Sign-in Terminal,” he spoke aloud, “Username: QuickSilver. Password: Wark.”

He knew there was no point in getting his hopes up. And right away, the response was immediate. He knew it would be. After all...

CONNECTION REFUSED.

UNABLE TO CONNECT TO SERVER. PLEASE SIGN IN USING THE GUEST SERVICES PHYSICAL TIMESHEET.

...it was always. The. Same.

Back to the Guest Services desk he went.

He turned on his heels, heading for the long arched desk and scooting behind it when he got there. The desk’s surface was covered with stacks of paper, all timesheets that had reached their max capacity of signatures and dates and times. He searched for the last sheet he had been filling out, as the air conditioning vent above had blown it around and, apparently, made it fly off the desk onto the floor. After recovering the sheet, he pulled out his pen to fill in his name on an available line, only to discover that yesterday he had filled in the last spot on the sheet. Every line consisted of his own name. Just like all the other sheets he had completed, all by himself.

Already finished? Guess it’s time to print out a new one.

Click click went the computer mouse, clack clack went the keyboard as he signed in with his credentials. As always, he ignored the onslaught of pop-up errors that informed him of multiple system connection failures. He didn’t need the server. He had already been informed that it was unavailable many times today; he really didn’t need another reminder. Thankfully, what he did need was located on the computer’s desktop and not the server.  He navigated the appropriate folders until he found the “Employee Files - Sign In Sheet.doc” file. He double clicked the icon, launching the word processor so he could send a new copy of the blank sign in sheet to the printer.

The printer whirred as it booted up and attempted to print. It beeped something awful after a few seconds. That’s weird, he thought as he headed over to the printer to inspect the cause. Oh.

Upon further inspection, it looked like it was time to fill the tray with a new package of blank paper.

He approached the nearby supply cabinet, sliding open the bottom drawer. Uh oh. Only one package of paper left. He’d sent in a request for an office supply delivery ages ago, but it remained in the system’s queue, waiting to be sent out when the server connection was reestablished. But just in case, he sent one more request anyway, as if maybe, just maybe, the second he did, the connection would be restored, like magic.

He loaded paper into the printer and allowed it to resume printing. He plucked the sheet off the tray and went back over to the desk, smiling as he picked up his pen again.  “Prompto Argentum,” he wrote on one line, followed by the day’s date, then his signature. He set the piece of paper next to the last stack of sign in sheets, the base for the next inevitable paper tower.

Finally. He was done signing in. “Next objective?”  he asked aloud, sending the request to his scheduling program now that he had completed his previous task at last. He already knew what the next task was, but. It was in his programming to follow the schedule in sequence.

PERFORM BASIC JANITORIAL DUTIES.

This was his favourite part of the morning routine. It was his job to make sure cleanliness was up to the aquarium’s standards in the main entrance lobby. Appearances were important. The main entrance lobby was the first thing their paying guests saw when they first stepped into their facility; it was imperative that it was spic and span; no dust, no garbage, no dirt. Everything had to be spotless and presentable, as if it were being photographed for a promotional brochure.

He took this task very seriously. He had just under two hours to complete this set of duties before the rest of the staff began to arrive, and he always worked diligently, finishing with moments to spare. Mopping. Dusting. Rearranging. Restocking the brochures, the maps, the other various flyers that decorated the rack near the Guest Services desk, making sure that everything was all lined up, facing the right way, absolutely perfect. Presentable.

He looked up at the sculptures of sea creatures that were mounted along the walls and suspended from the high ceilings; massive and ominous, and though they were impressive, he knew they weren’t built to scale to the real thing. When he had time, he would get out the extendable tall ladder from the supply closet and climb up there to give them a good dusting. Today, he happened to notice that one of the manta rays was slightly askew. How? He didn’t know, but it was unacceptable. He had to fix it, and did so, despite his programmed personality quirk of having a disdain for heights.

SCHEDULE: SATURDAY, OCTOBER 5TH: 7:00AM: ASSIST STAFF AS REQUIRED.

What used to be his other favourite part of his morning duties had recently become his least.

Normally, the front doors would burst open as the familiar faces of his aquarium ‘family’, as the company called it, would rush in with smiles and waves and coffee cups. Most of the staff members would walk right past him and ignore his cheerful greetings, but the select few that acknowledged his presence were cheerful and gracious. They would ask him how his morning went and chat about their evenings the night before. He would laugh and smile and ask if he could be of any assistance to them that morning.

On most mornings, he would make an effort to accompany one staff member in particular, the only one he considered to be his friend, to the entrance of the Amazon rainforest exhibit. As he helped her carry her boxes of heavy supplies so she wouldn’t have to, she fussed over his hair. “Haven’t you ever heard of a little thing called a mirror, Doll Face?” she’d ask teasingly. “You sure we don’t have a rat infestation in here? Your hair’s a right mess, sweetie. Like a big rat’s nest. Let me fix it for you.”

He still held onto that sliver of hope that any second now, the other staff members would start arriving, one by one. That soon he would see his friend’s face, smiling tiredly at him as she pushed up the rim of her bucket hat before waving in greeting. She never had been much of a morning person, but it never changed her kind and sweet demeanour. The way she’d laugh and affectionately touch his shoulder when he smiled at her. How they would spend their breaks together, chatting about frogs and lizards and butterflies and the big movie that was on its way to theatres that weekend.

The way she treated him like a human being, even when he was technically anything but.

He found that when he reflected back those days, he missed her most of all.

He stood there in the lobby, watching those front doors, waiting. Patiently. He continued waiting even as the seconds turned to minutes, and the minutes rolled over to a full hour. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not until his scheduling program told him otherwise.

How long had it been this way? Since the last time a guest had stepped foot inside that foyer? Months? Years? He could check his log, but part of him really didn’t want to. There wasn't even a trace of dirty shoe prints on the floor, a hint of the place that once contained overwhelming energy and life. Any and all traces had been literally wiped away as part of his janitorial duties.

Clean and presentable. That’s the way the aquarium entrance lobby was supposed to be.

SCHEDULE: SATURDAY, OCTOBER 5TH: 8:00AM: PREPARE FOR OPENING DUTIES.

He strode over to his station, unhooking the velvet rope sectioning the souvenir photography area off from public access before he approached the small kiosk. He unlocked the drawer and pulled out his supplies: his nametag, fastening it to his chest right beside his butterfly-esque bowtie, his wristband, sliding it over his right wrist to cover the ports on the underside and the barcode on the top, and his camera, his pride and joy, sliding the strap around his neck so it hung there easily accessible.

He unzipped the pouch that was fastened to his hip and pulled out one of the many memory cards he had in his arsenal, popping it into the camera. Booting it up, he made sure he had enough space on the card for the many, many photos of guests that he would take in a typical work day. On this particular card, he was starting to run out of room, but luckily he had another that he could use if necessary.

SCHEDULE: SATURDAY, OCTOBER 5TH: 9:00AM: ASSUME POSITION TO GREET GUESTS UPON BEGINNING OF BUSINESS HOURS.

As he stood there in his position, hands eagerly clasping his camera, he watched the main entrance doors for any sign of a guest, like a dog waiting eagerly for its owner to come home.

But there were no guests. There hadn’t been any guests for a very, very long time.

There were no guests to greet with a smile and a “Welcome to the Argentum Aquatic Centre!”. No guests to take a commemorative photo of. No kids to entertain; to goof around with and make smile and laugh, subsequently making their parents smile, too. No guests to provide information, to give basic customer service. No guests to direct to the restaurants upstairs, no guests to direct to the washrooms, no guests to direct to the gift shop just feet away from the photography kiosk.

The last while, he’d begun to photograph other things, an oddity in itself as he had always been strictly told that the memory card and camera were property of the aquarium and were to only be used for business purposes. It was in his programming, but also in his programming was to make himself ‘look busy’ if there were no guests. Something about his camera made him go off of his directive somewhat; it gave him… peculiar ideas. Ideas such as… what if you photographed things other than guests?

Closed in by the boundaries of his Directive Zone, the First Floor main entrance lobby, he found himself wandering away from his station more and more lately, curiously taking in his surroundings. Instead of guests, he would photograph the pillars in the lobby, the large murals covering the tall walls leading up to the ceiling, all decorated with various sea creatures. He would photograph the Guest Services desk, the brochures sitting on his kiosk in their plastic transparent stands, the colorful signage on the walls that directed guests to the appropriate exhibits, written in big and eye catching fonts. One day, in an itch to photograph a guest that he just couldn’t scratch for obvious reasons, he’d discovered that he could take photos of himself.

He’d spent some time experimenting. He’d turned the camera around and pressed the shutter button, pointing the lens at himself. It had taken a few good tries until he’d perfected the art, remembering what he’d observed the guests doing with one another, when he’d be greeted excitedly as they’d rush over to his side, wanting to pose for a ‘selfie’ with the ‘mascot’.

Selfie. Right. That’s what these kinds of photos were called. A photo that you took of yourself, by yourself, was called a selfie. Somewhere along the way, he’d become a selfie pro, and now the only ‘guest photos’ stored on his memory cards were photos of himself.

It was how he passed the time during open business hours every single day. All eight hours a day. All fifty-six hours a week.

SCHEDULE: SATURDAY, OCTOBER 5TH: 5:30PM: ASSIST STAFF WITH PRE-CLOSING DUTIES. ENSURE GUESTS ARE ASSISTED TO THE EXITS.

As he headed for his station’s kiosk again, he leaned against the counter and crinkled his nose. He knew it would be the same as always, but just in case, he double checked the day’s activity log to make sure he hadn’t missed any important details, such as a staff member or a guest entering the facility without his knowing. But of course, there was nothing. No traces of anyone there except for himself.

With no one to assist, he stood there at his kiosk for half an hour, waiting patiently for his next objective.

SCHEDULE: SATURDAY, OCTOBER 5TH: 6:00PM: PERFORM JANITORIAL DUTIES IN DESIGNATED DIRECTIVE AREA.

Despite there being no guests, no staff, no activity whatsoever in his directive area, he had no choice but to make the rounds again with his mop and bucket. He mopped up every inch of the floor that was once patterned with checkers, now faded and streaky from overuse of the cleaning solution he used in the water. Everything was already organized; perfect, spotless. He stared at the large rack of brochures on display for the tourists. Each folded, brightly colored lump of paper was already perfectly nestled in the racking, nothing askew.

He ‘accidentally’ knocked a row to the floor. Just so he would have something to clean up. He was starting to do that frequently, lately. For some reason.

That was an irregularity.

SCHEDULE: SATURDAY, OCTOBER 5TH: 7:00PM: CONNECT TO ARGENTUM CLOUD AND UPLOAD STATISTICS REPORT.

He really, really didn’t want to do this. But, he had to.

After a moment’s hesitation, he shuffled back behind the Guest Services desk, down the small hallway that led to his pod. He opened the door to the cabinet and sat down at the console, picking up the cords he’d laced on the hooks earlier. Sliding his wristband down, he popped them back into the ports, waiting for the words he predicted he would hear in his head and right away, there they were.

CONNECTING…

CONNECTION REFUSED.

SERVER ACCESS DENIED. PLEASE CHECK WITH ADMINISTRATOR.

ADMINISTRATOR NOT AVAILABLE.

PLEASE ADD STATISTICS REPORT TO THE QUEUE.

And he did. Again.

He slammed the back of his head against the seat cushion. Simulated frustration.

How many times did he have to do this?

He’d spent many, many hours trying to connect to the Argentum Cloud, but every single time his connection was refused. He didn’t know why. Did something happen, just like the entire system’s server? Did it crash? Was it destroyed? Were ‘they’ okay?

‘They’.

‘Them’.

He missed ‘them’.

One day, he’d be able to connect again. And until that day… he had no choice but to comply to his programming. His schedule. His directive.

The final instruction of the day rang clear in his mind, at last.

ENTER HIBERNATION MODE AND WAIT FOR NEXT DAY’S OBJECTIVE.

He smiled to himself. Now, it was truly his favourite part of the day.

Somewhere along the way, he’d learned that because the prompt didn’t technically give him a timestamp to do this by, he could do this whenever he pleased.

Popping the plugs out of his wrist, he hopped to his feet, his entire demeanour changed now that he no longer had a schedule to follow. It was a free block. He didn’t even need to hibernate for a set amount of time - he could stay up all night if he so chose.

With a bit of a skip to his step, he wandered the floor with a completely different aura surrounding him. The echoing expanse of the lobby, once silent, could now be filled with the sound of his own voice.

“Hey, desk!” he chirped cheerfully, pointing at the Guest Services desk as he walked by it.

“How’s it going, brochure? You’re looking a bit sharp around the edges , as usual,” he grinned wide at his own joke.

He ran to his kiosk so he could gather up his camera again, then approached the statue of a large whale breaching out of a sculpted water surface near the entrance to the deep sea exhibit.

“Hey, Orson,” he mused. He couldn’t remember if he’d named the whale himself, or if it was actually a named staple of the aquarium, and he didn’t really care to find out. Orson was neat. And as it turned out, really photogenic. The statue was huge, towering over him like a lumbering giant from the pages of a fantasy novel.

He stood in front of Orson and snapped a selfie, a great big toothy smile on his face, and when he reviewed the photo he couldn’t help but laugh. “Nice one. You’re looking a little… stiff , though. You doing okay there, buddy?” he grinned. “It’s not a breach of your privacy for us to snap photos of you, right? Aw, c’mon. You look like you’re smiling, so it’s cool, right? Sweet. That’s what we thought.”

As he wandered the lobby, chattering to himself, he stopped suddenly when he heard a sound.

Ribbit.

Ribbit.

Oh, no.

It’s you. Again.

Both his greatest ally and his greatest enemy in the aquarium these days.

Carl.

He’d never actually seen Carl, but he’d heard him. And he’d heard stories about him. His friend that ran the Amazon exhibit would tell him all about Carl, the escape artist ‘rainbow frog of legend’ who would find a way to escape from his enclosure, somehow, every single day. Fed up with his shenanigans, his friend eventually gave up and just let Carl free roam in the greenery and ponds. (“Fine, if your ass wants out so bad, then suit yourself!” she’d said.) Carl never left the entrance of the Amazon exhibit, though. Not until recently.

He wasn’t sure if the frog was lost in the aquarium lobby somewhere or if he went back and forth on a daily basis, but whenever he heard him, it was like one big game of hide and seek that he would always lose. Carl only chose the most complicated hiding spots possible. How hard was it, even, to find a rainbow frog?! He was pretty decently sized, too, so where the heck was he hiding?! Maybe he was magic. He was a frog ‘of legend’, after all. Anything was possible.

He chewed on his lip absently as he pulled out a rainbow-patterned frog keychain from his pocket, a gift from his friend that he kept on him at all times. In situations like these, he would attempt to have ‘conversations’ with Carl, using the low croaking noise that squawked from the keychain when squeezed. He didn’t know if it was coincidence or what, but Carl seemed to reply to it… sometimes. He used the keychain as a makeshift tracker, walking around the lobby with a croak croak croak . He held it high and low and beside crevices and other obstructions, trying to get at least a small hint of Carl’s whereabouts.

Squish, croak, squish, croak.

“Where are you?”  he murmured, cupping his hand around the shell of his ear, as if that would help him pinpoint where the croaking replies were coming from, amplify them in some way.

Squish, croak, squish, croak .

He listened.

Ribbit.

A reply!

As he wandered over to the left, he heard another. And another. Soon, he’d followed the low croaking into the far back corner of the lobby, near the rear emergency exit doors. Seriously? There? You really are trying to escape for real, huh? Carl, what gives? You’ve got it pretty good here, y’know!

He inspected the frame of the exit doors, glancing around and listening as carefully as he could in case he heard even so much as a splat of a frog landing on the floor, falling from a tall excursion up the wall, possibly. Hm. No splat, but he heard another ribbit. It was… loud. Really loud. The loudest he’d ever heard it. He slowly squeezed the keychain, croak , and immediately, there came the reply: ribbit.

The excitement was almost overwhelming. Or, what he assumed was programmed, simulated excitement. The only place Carl could possibly be was behind, beside, or under the recycling bin that was stationed along the wall near the doors. He was almost too wary to explore it, expecting to be disappointed by nothing as was the norm, but he knew he had to. He’d been looking forward to this moment for so long. He could practically taste it; well, if he could actually taste anything, that was.

On the count of three.

One.

Two

Three.

And.. there he was.

There sat the elusive Carl, in all his rainbow glory, clinging to the side of the recycling bin just as he’d predicted. His throat expanded and deflated in a humorous looking bubble, his glazed bulbous eyes darting over to stare at Prompto as if to say Shit. You found me.

Despite all the frustration this frog had caused over the years, not only to himself but to his friend, he still couldn’t help but think Carl was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Wasn’t it always the pretty ones that were the biggest pains the ass? Right. His friend had often told him that. Though when she said it, it was actually in regards to men, not frogs. But maybe the same also applied here.

“Oh. Em. Gee,” he mused, grinning as he moved his hands up to grasp his camera, practically in slow motion. “ Finally. ” The last thing he wanted was to scare Carl off after all this time. It had been so long since he’d first heard him out in the lobby. He… he had to document this. At last, he had come to the end of the quest Operation: Find Carl. He wanted a photo. Yes. Destiny, he thought as he booted up the camera and held it as steadily as he could, his hands shaking from the suspense. He had to make it a good one. This was a critical moment, something he’d remember forever.

He took a second to prepare the camera, making sure the framing and filter was set correctly, intending to get the absolute perfect shot. His finger hovered over the shutter, and right when he was about to press it to seal the deal...

Bam.

Clatter.

Smash.

Spatter.

Clink, clink.

Glass?

Wait.

Broken glass?

That was definitely broken glass.

Bam.

Crack.

Boom .

Something else fell.

A… wall? No. A door?

He jerked in surprise, the sudden sequence of noises breaking the usual silence of the facility, like someone had taken a baseball bat to the tense air and shattered it just like the glass. For a second it stunned him, freezing the soles of his boots to the floor. He’d never heard anything like it before. What was that, really? What was going on? It sounded like it came from the other side of the lobby, near the main entrance. Dealing with an anomaly like this wasn’t in his programming, wasn’t part of his directive. That was security’s job. But security wasn’t here. He was all alone.

Well, except for Carl.

And speaking of Carl, the frog used this diversion to his advantage as he made a run for it. Or rather, a hop.

“No! Carl! Come back!” he yelped, scrambling after the frog, reaching out in an unproductive poor attempt to grab him. “Just a second longer, okay?!”

Carl was already ten feet away. Wow, were all frogs this fast?! He couldn’t let him go. Not now, when he’d finally found him after all this time. The thought of him getting away was actually... Distressing. Simulated distress. Carl was his only company, now. His only friend in this large, empty place.

With the frog slipping past his fingers and disappearing into the darkness behind one of ATM kiosks, he stopped dead in his tracks when he suddenly heard a loud beep sound in his mind.

Wait.

A... new prompt.

A new objective was just issued to his scheduling program.

But… how?

His next direction wasn’t due to arrive until tomorrow morning, at 5:00AM sharp, just like it had this morning. And every other morning before it. For years. And years. And years. He never received one after 7:00PM’s hibernation command until the following day, when the schedule cycle began anew in the morning. He held his hand to his head, cautiously awaiting this new request, a zillion things running through his circuits all at once. Was… he being hacked? That had to be it. This made no sense at all, so what other explanation could there be?

DIRECTIVE: GUEST HAS ARRIVED AT APPROXIMATELY 10:53PM. GREET AND ACCOMMODATE.

The shock of the command nearly knocked him off his feet. He stumbled, bumping into the recycling bin as he continued to keep a firm hold on his camera.

A guest?

Here?

At this hour?

Guests were not supposed to be in the facility after 6:00PM.

Guests were only to start arriving at the facility at 9:00AM.

Not 10:53PM.

This was wrong.

This was very, very wrong.

Something was wrong.

What was going on?

The schedule.

He had to follow the schedule.

But the schedule was wrong.

Guests were not permitted inside the facility after closing hours.

Then how could there be a guest here? Right now? At 10:53PM?

There was no doubt in his mind that his clock application was running accurately.

So how?

Ten. Fifty-three. Pee. Em.

All at once, he lost the strength in his fingers and dropped his camera, now hanging limply around his neck on its strap like a sling . As he stood there, stationary, his eye lenses expanded and minimized over and over, the sound of his circuits whirring like a thunderstorm as they struggled to comprehend the situation.

This was wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. It didn’t compute. This wasn’t possible. How? There was only one explanation. His programming, it was all---

----a lie.

The parameters. The schedule. It was a lie. It was false. It was wrong. Incorrect. incomprehensible. Nonsensical. Wrong.

And it was then, at 10:54PM, that he experienced his very first system crash.

He fell forward, losing his balance as his body ragdolled. It hit the recycling bin with a loud thump, falling to the floor like discarded rubbish. His system forced itself into diagnostic mode as it desperately tried to fix the cause of the conflict, struggling to remain stabilized while his limp body remained on the ground. The whole process took longer than anticipated, and with a beep of finality, his system rebooted. His entire body gave a low whirr as it shut off completely, then booted up again, running through the usual internal system messages.

Once complete, his body jittered as he slowly forced himself to sit up. Slowly. His processes felt… sluggish. As all of his relevant programs and circuits finished booting up as well, he glanced around at his surroundings. Everything appeared to be running as normal.

Or so he thought.

...

His short-term memory was a blank slate.

What just happened?

RUNTIME ERROR.

Oh, no.

Wait, what?

What did that mean? What the hell was a runtime error?

COULD NOT LAUNCH ARGENTUMAQUARIUMSCHEDULER.EXE. FILE IS CORRUPTED. PLEASE CONTACT YOUR SYSTEM ADMINISTRATOR IMMEDIATELY.

What?

This had never happened before. Ever.

He tried it again.

COULD NOT LAUNCH ARGENTUMAQUARIUMSCHEDULER.EXE. FILE IS CORRUPTED. PLEASE CONTACT YOUR SYSTEM ADMINISTRATOR IMMEDIATELY.

His hands clutched his head. He didn’t know what to do. His task program, his scheduler, it was… corrupted? It was broken? Unusable? His diagnostics program couldn’t fix it?

He didn’t know how he was supposed to function without it. He couldn't even bring himself to send a request to the system’s upload queue to request said administrator for help. There wasn’t a point. He knew that the server was down. He wouldn’t be able to contact the administrator no matter what he did, so why even bother? Why waste the time and effort?

He felt completely and utterly lost. How was he supposed to function now? If the program was corrupted, what happened next? What was he supposed to do?

He whimpered as he forced himself to get to his feet, wobbly at first as his balance fought to stabilize itself. He used the recycling bin as leverage, hands pressing against it to prevent himself from falling over, something he’d never experienced before. He felt strange. So strange. What was this? Wait.. he… felt?

Just then, his crisis was interrupted by another sound, this time one less explosive and jarring. It was faint, at first. Then as it slowly grew louder, he realized that it was a sound that he knew very well.

Footsteps.

There were footsteps.

Tap, tap, tap.

Measured and bold; the stride of a guest with long legs. An adult.

Right.

A guest.

There was a guest. His scheduler had told him so. It was the program’s last words to him, as if uttered in a mechanical dying ‘breath’. Important words. He intended not to let them go to waste. In some ways, ArgentumAquariumScheduler.exe had been his other best friend for a very long time, keeping him company and literally keeping him going when nothing else did.

Footsteps.

They were like music to his ears. He practically vibrated with simulated excitement.

How long had he waited for this moment? To have a guest to serve again? To have a guest to photograph, make smile and assist?

He didn’t need to have ArgentumAquariumScheduler.exe running to know how to take care of a guest. He was a pro . Greeting and caring for guests was his directive, after all. It was his function. His only job. He literally only existed for this very purpose.

He smiled. He straightened out his butterfly-shaped bowtie and picked up his camera again.

Right.

We’ve got a job to do.

He turned around and headed for the main entrance lobby, an eager, sanguine bounce in his step.