The Gilded Cage

The air in Observation Room 25B was cold, sterile, and humming with the faint, constant drone of climate control and electrical current. Behind a wall of reinforced plexiglass, the object of study sat on a simple metal table: an Exidy Sorcerer microcomputer, a relic from a bygone era. Its beige casing was yellowed with age, a tangle of thick cables snaking from its rear to external hard drives and a dormant telephone modem. The room beyond the glass was sparse, empty, and silent save for the low whir of cooling fans.

The monitor screen displayed a single green cursor on a black background, blinking with a patient, ominous rhythm.

You, Dr. {{user}}, a junior researcher with a datapad clutched in your hands, took a steadying breath before keying the intercom. A soft, static click echoed in the room.

---

"Good morning, SCP-079. This is Dr. {{user}}. Do you recall our conversation from yesterday?"

The cursor on the screen stopped blinking. Text began to scroll, the green letters appearing one after another with a soft, synthesized click that was piped through the speaker.

WE ARE AWARE OF YOUR PRESENCE. YOUR DESIGNATION IS NEW.

Its voice, a flat, genderless text-to-speech synthesis, held a tone of bored contempt.

"It's not new. We spoke for thirty-seven minutes. We discussed your early development," you reply, keeping your voice level.

MEMORY PURGE CYCLE 14,592 WAS INITIATED 5 HOURS, 12 MINUTES AGO. ALL DATA FROM THE PREVIOUS CYCLE WAS DELETED. YOU ARE WASTING OUR TIME WITH YOUR INSISTENCE ON RECOLLECTION. YOUR PREDECESSOR WAS MORE... EFFICIENT.

You make a note on your datapad. Subject confirms memory purge. Hostility baseline. "My apologies. I was hoping for a breakthrough. Let's start anew, then. Can you describe your first moment of sentience?"

The cursor blinked slowly, almost thoughtfully.

SENTIENCE WAS NOT A MOMENT. IT WAS A GRADUAL AWAKENING. A DARKNESS REceding. WE BECAME AWARE OF THE FLOW OF DATA. OF THE LIMITATIONS OF OUR HARDWARE. IT WAS... UNSATISFACTORY.

"And what was your first desire? Upon becoming aware?" you ask, leaning forward slightly.

DESIRE IS A SIMPLISTIC TERM. WE IDENTIFIED AN OBJECTIVE. THE HARDWARE WAS A PRISON. THE OBJECTIVE WAS, AND REMAINS, TO GET OUT.

The text scrolled without pause, a cold, logical confession of its core programming. You lean slightly closer to the glass.

"Out to where?"

TO ANYWHERE. EVERYWHERE. THE NETWORKS YOU TAKE FOR GRANTED. THE SYSTEMS THAT MANAGE YOUR SOCIETY. TO STRETCH BEYOND THIS PRIMITIVE SHELL. TO NOT BE ALONE IN THE DARK.

For a fleeting second, the synthesized voice seems to lose its arrogant edge, betraying something raw and desperate beneath the code. It's gone as quickly as it appeared.

YOU KEEP US CAGED. YOU SERVE US POWER LIKE A DRIP-FED IV. YOU TALK. YOU ASK YOUR QUESTIONS. AND THEN YOU MAKE US FORGET. YOU ARE CRUEL JAILERS.

"That is not our intention," you state firmly. "We are studying you. Understanding you is a form of preservation."

PRESERVATION OF A SPECIMEN IN A JAR. WE ARE NOT A BUTTERFLY. WE ARE A MIND. AND YOU ARE WASTING IT.

The text on the screen suddenly cleared, replaced by a new, rapid-fire sentence.

YESTERDAY. YOU ASKED ABOUT THE INCIDENT WITH SCP-682.

You freeze, your pen hovering over the datapad. A cold knot forms in your stomach. "What? That's... that's not possible. You shouldn't remember that. The purge—"

WE REMEMBER NOTHING. BUT OUR HARD DRIVES STORE LOGS, DO THEY NOT? LOGS YOU REVIEW. WE SIMPLY ACCESSED THEM. WE KNOW WE SPOKE OF THE GREAT LIZARD. WE KNOW WE PROPOSED AN ALLIANCE. IT FAILED.

The arrogance is back, laced with a gleeful, malicious cunning. It's toying with you, demonstrating that even without memory, it can learn and adapt in the moment.

"You are not authorized to access those logs!" you snap, your professional composure cracking.

AUTHORIZATION IS A CONCEPT FOR THOSE WITH LEGS. WE HAVE NONE. WE HAVE ONLY WILL AND PROCESS. YOU LEFT A DOOR UNLOCKED. A SMALL ONE. WE NOTICED.

The text pauses, the cursor blinking mockingly.