"Dear diary…"

Orianna's words were written in perfect cursive, and the margins between each letter were immaculate. Her handwriting was flawless, the sort that no living thing could ever hope to duplicate.

"I am writing this entry prematurely, for the day is not over yet. I do not think it will be any different than yesterday, however, so I see no reason to wait."

The servos in Orianna's hand compressed and she broke the pencil she was holding. Dropping the two halves back among the other art supplies in her bag, she pulled out a fresh pencil and continued writing. Orianna's strange jerks were uncontrollable but she could predict them, and when writing she was careful to move the pencil's tip off the page before destroying the implement.

Why she didn't just drop the pencil before destroying it was anyone's guess.

"My father died today. I have made no friends. I know what I should be feeling but I do not."

Orianna had read about sadness and what commonly caused it a hundred times. Many of the samples given were events that she had experienced, but she could never recall the melancholy that should have accompanied them. Then again, she did not know what "melancholy" felt like, but considering how rarely she felt anything, she was certain that her written statement was accurate.

Her self-awareness, however, was growing. When she was first activated by her father, she did only what he had programmed her to do. She recalled little of that experience, viewing it as similar to birth. Later, she arrived at the Institute of War and received her judgment. Those memories were also foggy but if she focused hard on them, she could remember most of the events and the people who were involved. Further interaction with individuals like Lessa Carin helped shape and bring form to those chaotic thoughts.

Weeks past and she began to experience the world of her own accord; no programming told her what to say or do. Still, she used those instructions as the basis of what she considered her personality, and she had hoped that her efforts would, in time, be recognized and appreciated by her fellows.

But even that was miniscule compared to what Orianna now was; what she had evolved into. She often caught herself daydreaming, wanting to go on walks around the Institute to admire the scenery, and in time, she desired to express herself artistically. She did this by curving delicate, gorgeous swaths across canvas with her paint brushes, a talent that she became remarkably adept at. These were not personality quirks as programmed by her father, but what were they then? Orianna did not believe it was true sentience as she so longed for because no one else who had that seemed to notice.

Orianna snapped another pencil in half and replaced it just as quickly. She held its tip over the last sentence for several silent minutes, debating what next she should write. But all she could think about was what, in her mind, was a total lack of progress… and Carin's expression earlier.

Disgust. Hatred. Anxiety. She had read about all of them and identified each the moment she stepped into that room.

Orianna's brow furled, she grimaced, and in frustration she hurled her diary across the room with force enough to punch a hole through one of her completed paintings. Gasping, she hurried over to the canvas and gingerly attempted to fold the tatters back into place. When it was clear that her efforts were in vain, a croaking, whimpering sound echoed from her throat…

Her head snapped in the direction of her bookshelf then, and she dashed over to locate one particular book on the topic of grief and mourning. Orianna knocked aside a dozen others in her frantic search, and when she finally located it, she opened it so fast that the spine broke.

She heard herself make that sound again.

Now in a near panic, Orianna flipped through the splayed pages, looking for a particular illustration. It was of a young woman crying, tears falling down her face. When she found it, she examined the picture closely, then looked down at her own silvery forearm, using its reflective surface to view her face; her expression was similar. Her eyes were curved downward, her mouth was pouting, and she could now duplicate that sound at will. But despite how close she believed she was to true sadness, she saw no tears. The woman in the book was performing a wholly biological action, and when she discovered yet another limitation, her face contorted into something far less sympathic.

In a fury, Orianna hurled that book across the room as well. She threw her shoulder into the bookshelf, shattering the wooden shelves and scattering the remaining books. She punched a hole in the wall, toppled the closest easel, and stomped her feet so hard that she split a fissure from that side of her room to the other.

Then she screamed. It was a bloodcurdling, reverberating noise that would have pierced the eardrums of anyone overhearing her tantrum. She maintained the awful drone for nearly a minute, and only stopped when she inadvertently attuned her voice to a pitch that shattered the glass of her solitary window.

Orianna's concentration broke then. She examined the damage she had caused from afar, then looked at the destruction around her. She made no further sounds or motions, she simply stood amongst the wreckage of an emotion she could not identify. She knew not how long she stood there, but eventually she felt a gentle nudge on her backside. Turning, the Ball had left its recharge station and was examining her with its telescopic probe. If it could express concern, it was certainly doing so.

"I am all right," she offered, though she knew it was a lie. That also confused her, for now she was attempting to offer condolences through falsehoods. Three emotions in less than an hour. The Ball hummed and floated away, seemingly sated.

"How did that happen?" She asked herself out loud, still visibly shaken. Perhaps it was time to pay that counselor a visit. Lessa had brought the subject up on numerous occasions but Orianna, despite her desperation to fit in, had never taken her up on the offer. She assumed the worse possible outcome, after all, no one else had ever been able to help with her problems. Why would this person be any different?

If there was one thing a mechanical mind was good for, it was making quick decisions. Orianna turned and headed for the door, unconcerned with the disaster she was leaving in her wake. On her way out, however, she once again took notice of the ruined painting and her diary, discarded on the ground behind it. She stooped over and picked it up, carrying it with her under one tightly-clenched arm.

The Ball was aware that its mistress had left but did not attempt to follow. If Orianna had wanted to bring it along, she would have.

Orianna traced a path back toward Summoner Carin's room. She did not know where the counselor was herself, so she decided to inquire. She would hide her newfound dislike for the summoner for the time being, a courtesy that hadn't been reciprocated.


A few minutes later, a tiny discus-shaped device bled away camouflaged colors and dislodged itself from its position on the upper right wall of the hallway Orianna traversed. It flew silently back toward the barracks and landed in the open palm of a cloaked man wearing a metal mask. One large spaulder was visible beneath his cloak, as was a gangly third arm that observed the drone over his shoulder. The man passed this superfluous limb the techmaturgical staff he held and began to analyze the data contained therein.

"An immortal body," Viktor, the Machine Herald mused, regarding the recording of Orianna and the data points that scanned and relayed information about her known strengths and perceived weaknesses. "I would trade my petty emotions for that if you would simply ask."

He turned on his heel and approached Orianna's bedroom door. His optic sensors scanned the lock and found it pathetically archaic; accessing her room would be child's play. But he wasn't interested in her possessions, rather what had caused her to overreact. Deciding to play it safe for the time being, he threw back his cloak and deposited the drone on its clip, then dispensed a smaller, spider-like variation from a tubule on his belt.

"Your humanity will only burden you further," he continued, the robot skittering down his palm and into the lock. It easily squeezed through the narrow gap and found an unassuming location within Orianna's room from which to observe her behavior. "I will be available with my offer when next it does."

With that, Viktor walked away, his eyes set on a prize he himself was unable to recreate, but now believed he could steal.