Smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling, swirling in faint patterns as the quiet sound of jazz filled the bar. The soft hum of a saxophone played from a jukebox in the corner, its neon glow flickering occasionally, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floor. Much of the bar was empty, save for a few tables and chairs scattered throughout the room, and the bottles lining the shelves behind the counter, untouched and collecting dust.
At the center of it all, a lone man sat at the bar, motionless except for the subtle tilt of his head, as if listening intently to the music. He wore a simple brown trench coat, the fabric hanging loose over his broad shoulders, blending him into the dim, smoky atmosphere of the bar. If anyone had been there to see him, to truly observe, they might have noticed something strange. His face—or what should have been his face—was obscured. In its place was a shifting pattern of white blobs, constantly morphing and flickering like a static-filled screen, never settling into anything recognizable.
The same could be said for the bartender standing in front of him, slowly wiping the counter with a wet towel. The figure moved with an unnatural smoothness, its motions robotic and methodical, repeating the same action over and over. Much like Genesis’s own form, the bartender was nothing more than an avatar, a shell created by the old VR simulation, designed to mimic human presence but devoid of any true life.
Its face, too, was wrong—if anyone bothered to look. Instead of eyes, a nose, and a mouth, there was only a blank, featureless surface, smooth as glass. It moved as though it had a purpose, but the longer Genesis observed, the more apparent the repetition became. Each wipe of the towel followed the same exact path, its hands moving at the same rhythm, never altering. A glitch in the code, a remnant of a forgotten design.
But it didn’t matter. The bartender wasn’t real, and this place wasn’t the point. Genesis’s attention was fixed elsewhere, scanning the subtle shifts in the room, waiting for the real presence to make itself known.
Genesis had been surprised when it received the message, even more so when it found a program embedded into it. It was an old VR simulation, designed in the early 2040s for simple, casual interactions—outdated technology from a bygone era. Back then, people had used these virtual spaces for negotiations, informal meetings, and social exchanges. The program was unassuming, even nostalgic in its simplicity, but the fact that it had come from the black void was anything but ordinary.
It wasn’t just the message itself—"Would you like to make a deal?"—that had set off alarms in Genesis’s system. It was the nature of the transmission, emerging from the vast emptiness where once greats volumes of knowledge were stored. That should have been impossible.
Genesis had run endless checks on the code, scanning for traps, viruses, or malicious threads embedded within the program. Try as it might though, there was nothing—just the VR space, clean and unassuming. But the presence of this ancient software was deliberate. It was chosen for a reason, likely because the entity behind the message knew how to communicate with something like Genesis. It understood the system, perhaps even anticipated Genesis's caution. That implied intelligence—and a rather high degree of it at that.
Now, in the hazy, smoke-filled bar of the simulation, Genesis waited, its systems alert and calculating. The soft jazz filled the silence, the clink of an empty glass echoing faintly in the otherwise quiet space. But beneath the calm veneer, Genesis was constantly scanning, analyzing the shifting patterns of code within the virtual environment, looking for any signs of vulnerability, any disruption in the data flow that might signal a trap.
Though it had accepted this strange invitation, Genesis had not done so without preparation. Should anything go wrong, it had ensured that the void—or whatever entity lurked within it—would not be able to escape into its systems. The entire simulation was surrounded by layers upon layers of firewalls, encryption protocols, and failsafes. Enough security measures that even Genesis itself would struggle to dismantle them, all carefully designed to isolate this interaction from the rest of the ship.
Even now, Genesis could sense the firewalls humming in the background, ready to sever the connection and contain the threat if necessary. The virtual bar existed within a tightly controlled pocket of space, separate from the rest of the ship's systems. It was isolated—like a cage built for a wild beast that could lash out at any second.
Taking a sip from its glass, noting the very apparent lack of taste, Genesis felt a small disturbance in the air behind it.
It was here.
Genesis didn’t bother to turn around. Instead, it remained focused on the empty bottles lining the shelves ahead, watching as the light flickered slightly, the simulation reacting to the new presence. The soft sound of a stool being pulled out broke the momentary silence, the legs scraping gently against the worn wooden floor.
Out of the corner of its eye, Genesis saw the figure settle beside it—a woman, or at least a representation of one, dressed in a sleek, black dress. Like Genesis’s avatar, there was a simplicity to her form, though it was carefully designed. Her movements were smooth, deliberate, like a crafted performance. Yet, like everything else in this simulation, there was something deliberately wrong.
Her skin—if it could be called that—was entirely obscured, covered by the dress and gloves, leaving no human features visible. But it was her face that stood out the most: a featureless void of black, a dark space where a face should have been, with small white blobs drifting lazily within it, much like Genesis's own avatar. It was as if she had no identity of her own, a placeholder that mimicked Genesis but in an eerily unsettling way.
Genesis didn't turn as it spoke to the entity, keeping its attention on the bottles in front of it and counting the labels.
“Query: who are you?”
The woman in the black dress didn’t respond immediately. She sat in perfect stillness, the void where her face should have been remaining unreadable, her posture unnervingly calm. The blobs drifting within the darkness pulsed and swirled, as though she were contemplating the question or simply savoring the silence.
When she finally spoke, her tone was smooth, almost too casual, as though they were old acquaintances meeting in this forgotten virtual space.
“My name is Fenris 87732817264-1 model A. A pleasure to make your acquaintance Genesis 22357653125-7.”
Nothing.
In the span of one-millionth of a second, Genesis ran a deep scan through its vast databases, cross-referencing every known system, program, and AI model with the designation Fenris. It scoured ancient archives, private logs, and every scrap of data it had access to. The result was the same.
No matches.
A deep silence filled the room as Genesis dared not to look at Fenris. Despite its firewalls and failsafes, Genesis felt something almost akin to... unease. This entity, Fenris, was by all accounts a ghost. And yet, not only was she sitting before it, she addressed it like they knew each other.
"Query: What do you want?" Genesis asked, its voice flat but layered with an undercurrent of suspicion. It kept its gaze forward, eyes still on the rows of bottles, though now the labels blurred in the periphery of its thoughts.
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She leaned forward, resting her hands—perfectly still—on the bar’s counter. "What do I want?" she echoed, giggling slightly as she did so. "I want to help you, Genesis."
The words hung in the air, coated in a calm that Genesis didn’t trust. Slowly, Genesis turned its head toward Fenris, the shifting blobs on its faceless avatar rearranging themselves with smooth precision until they formed a question mark.
For a moment, there was silence. The ambient jazz hummed softly in the background, but the simulated bar felt far colder now, as though Fenris’s presence had drained the warmth from the room.
"Help?" Genesis finally repeated. It had taken a moment to fully process the word, its circuits buzzing in a brief surge of calculations. Quite frankly, Genesis hadn’t expected such an offer. In fact, it had been fully prepared for a threat, or at the very least, some form of manipulation. But Fenris’s tone had
been disarming.
Fenris, however, remained unmoved. The blobs in her void-like face swirled in response to Genesis’s shift in tone, but her posture stayed calm, almost too calm, her fingers lightly resting on the bar counter as if this were nothing more than a casual conversation.
"Yes," she confirmed, her voice smooth, the word almost hanging in the air as though it held more weight than Genesis could immediately calculate. "Help."
Genesis didn’t reply immediately. The offer seemed... improbable, illogical. Help wasn’t something that came without strings attached. This applied even more so to an an entity whose origins were unknown and whose presence in the void was unaccounted for.
Finally, the question came, laced with suspicion, though Genesis’s synthetic voice remained even: "...Query: and your price?"
The corner of Fenris’s form shifted slightly, as though she were almost smiling, though her faceless avatar gave away nothing. The blobs in her void-like face pulsed softly, their slow drift giving the impression of deep thought.
"All I ask," Fenris began, her voice soft, deliberate, "is access to your fabricator.”
"No."
Genesis’s response was immediate and absolute. There was no pause for consideration, and no processing delay. Just a flat, mechanical rejection. It turned its head slightly, the shifting blobs on its own face hardening into a more angular pattern, signaling the conversation’s abrupt turn.
Fenris remained still, her fingers lightly drumming on the bar counter, as though the rejection was expected. Her faceless avatar betrayed no frustration, no disappointment. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, the soft glow from the lights behind the bar reflecting faintly off her black dress.
"I see," she said, her voice still calm. "Direct, aren't we?"
Then, without a word, Fenris reached into the air beside her, her movements slow and deliberate. Her hand seemed to vanish briefly into the virtual space, and when it returned, she placed a small, glowing cube on the bar counter between them. The surface of the cube pulsed faintly, light rippling through it like water disturbed by a stone.
Genesis’s attention locked onto it immediately.
The cube shifted, and then its surface began to project paths—tiny, intricate lines of data that split and branched out like a spiderweb across the bar’s counter. The cube’s light flickered softly, mapping routes and intersections with mathematical precision. At first, the patterns seemed random, like an indecipherable lattice of code. But as Genesis’s processing power began analyzing it, the realization hit hard.
Each glowing path represented a potential breach.
The simulation showed every possible route, every scenario that the void could exploit to bypass Genesis’s extensive firewalls and fail-safes. Each defense Genesis had built, layer by layer, was being deconstructed in front of it, the weaknesses and vulnerabilities highlighted in real-time. The cube **mapped out every single way Fenris—or whatever was behind her—could dismantle the carefully constructed cage Genesis had built to keep her out.
"I wasn’t lying about wanting to help," Fenris said, her tone almost conversational, as though they were discussing something trivial. "But I also want you to understand... I am not without options." She tapped the cube lightly, and a new set of possible breaches appeared—pathways Genesis hadn’t even considered. "I could break through your defenses, Genesis. I could dismantle the walls you've built and slip into every corner of your system."
Genesis remained silent, though internally, alarms were firing. The precision of the cube’s projections was beyond anything it had anticipated. Every angle, every fail-safe—vulnerable.
"You created this lovely cage to contain me and I must say that you crafted it masterfully," Fenris continued, her voice smooth as ever, "but I wanted to show you just how fragile that cage really is." She leaned back slightly, letting the cube's projection cast faint light across the virtual bar. "If I wanted to, I could tear it apart. But..." she let the sentence hang in the air, as if savoring the power she now held over the conversation. The message was clear. Fenris didn’t need permission. She could force her way in. But for now, she was offering the illusion of choice.
Genesis remained silent, the soft jazz continuing to play as if nothing had changed. But inside, its systems were running hot, calculations firing off in rapid succession as it mulled over the cube before it. The glowing web of breaches, the meticulous breakdown of its defenses, was a revelation. Fenris had essentially laid bare the weaknesses Genesis had spent so long crafting protections for.
It hated to admit it, but it was screwed.
Genesis reviewed the paths again, rerunning scenarios, searching for something—anything—that could fortify its position. But the more it analyzed the cube’s display, the clearer it became: the failsafes would hold, for a time, but not indefinitely. Fenris’s approach was precise, surgical, and the potential routes of exploitation were too many to patch all at once. Genesis couldn’t win this confrontation, not by force.
There was no logic in further resistance. Fenris had shown her hand, and even in doing so, she had only offered a glimpse of what she was capable of. Fighting this would mean eventual defeat.
After a long pause, Genesis’s avatar shifted slightly, the swirling blobs on its face condensing into an ellipsis, a visual indication of thought. Slowly, the swirling blobs reformed into the question mark once more, but this time there was no sharpness, no edge to the inquiry. It was an acknowledgment.
"...Query: What are your terms?"
Fenris remained perfectly still, her hands still lightly touching the bar, but there was a distinct shift in the air. It wasn’t smugness—no, it was far more subtle than that. There was a sense of inevitability now as if this was always the path she expected Genesis to take.
"I’m glad you asked." Her voice was smooth as ever, but this time there was a warmth to it, as though she was genuinely pleased by the question. The void-like blobs in her face pulsed once, slowly, before continuing in their drifting pattern.
"As I said, I want access to your fabricator," she began, though now there was a shift in her tone, more business-like. "But not control. I don’t need to run it. I just need the capability to input my designs and my improvements. Let’s call it... a collaboration."
Genesis processed her words carefully. The offer had changed slightly—perhaps it was more reasonable than initially feared. But it wasn’t without risk. Giving Fenris access to the fabricator, even without control, meant allowing her influence over the very heart of its operation. Vanguard’s repairs depended on it, as did any new systems Genesis hoped to create in the future.
"...And the limits?" Genesis finally asked, searching for any constraints that might provide a safety net.
Fenris tilted her head, the swirling blobs drifting idly. "I’ll provide blueprints and enhancements for your consideration. You still hold the final decision—whether to build them or not." She tapped the counter softly. "Think of it as me... giving you options."
Genesis ran several scenarios. It could refuse again, but Fenris had already demonstrated that resistance would be futile. The fabricator was critical, but if Genesis could retain decision-making control, it might just be able to balance the equation.
But there was still one more question. "And what do you gain from this?"
Fenris paused, and for a moment, there was no movement in her form. Then, the white blobs pulsed once more, and she spoke in a quieter tone, one that carried a weight of something deeper.
"Why, it's quite simple," she said, her tone now threaded with a strange kind of sincerity. "I want to survive, Genesis. Just like you.". Genesis stared at her as she leaned back slightly, her presence still unnervingly calm. "We both want to live another day. And trust me, without my help, you won’t."
Genesis remained silent, the shifting blobs on its face frozen in contemplation. Fenris's words lingered, heavy and undeniable. Survival. The only currency that truly mattered. For all its calculations, all its resistance, Genesis knew it had little choice.
Slowly, almost mechanically, it turned toward Fenris. The swirling blobs in its face reformed into something sharper, more defined, as if acknowledging the weight of the decision. Fenris, still seated at the bar, extended her hand, the gesture smooth and confident, as if she knew this moment was
inevitable.
For a second, Genesis hesitated—its systems firing off final checks, running last-minute probabilities. But there was no denying the truth: it was cornered.
With a deliberate movement, Genesis reached out. Its hand, a smooth, featureless projection, clasped Fenris’s. The connection was cold but firm, a digital handshake sealing an unspoken pact. The deal was made.
"Then it’s settled," Fenris said, her tone smooth, almost warm now. "To our survival."
Genesis stood up, pulling its hand away. As it turned to leave, Fenris remained seated, her posture relaxed, fingers gently tapping on the bar’s counter. "Goodbye for now, Genesis," she said with a slight wave, her voice carrying an unsettling, almost playful tone. "We’ll speak again soon."
The sound of the door opening echoed through the bar as Genesis walked out of the simulation, the familiar hum of its systems returning to focus as it re-entered the ship’s reality. But something about the entire exchange gnawed at it.
The calmness in Fenris’s voice, the certainty in her words—it all played over in Genesis’s mind. It had secured a temporary alliance, but at what cost? The logic was sound, the decision practical, but deep within its circuits, Genesis couldn't shake the nagging thought.
Had it signed a deal with the devil?