He's inside his cave.

The enclosed space gave him a sense of security. And moreover, he doesn't think he has to go outside to scavenge. But on a more worrying note, his long term food supply being non-existent will be of great concern in the not too distant future. Worse, he doesn't think he had his fill after that damned wolf had to intervene his lunch.

But he does have time. A bit of time, since there were so many things he should be doing, but enough for a quick interview.

"What is your prime objective."

[There are no other reasons for me to exist than to serve you.]

Brain implants. There are many kinds of them ranging in variety, but the truth behind them is that they exist to push the limits of humanity. In military cases, some have built-in sensors such as combat-type implants. used by elite PMC's and special forces. that can tell you where the enemies are via "controlled hallucinogenic HUD", or even calculating and projecting the bullet trajectory and kill an enemy 5 kilometers away without even needing a scope.

"Are you my enemy."

[A servant cannot harm his master unless ordered so.]

But the sole reason for its invention is that our minds as it is are inefficient, the myth "10 percent usage" being still apparent to the world of science. And in the growing 21st century where innovation and discovery are at its finest, we can only take so much information. Take a look at doctors, they need almost a decade to master their craft. They were already obsolete when you've got these robots that can handle surgeries with precision.

"Prove it."

[Then I shall...]

DELETE SAGE?

YES     |     NO

"..."

Man trusts machines more than man itself. It was like that ever since the day self-driven cars proved themselves safer and faster. Technology surpassed mankind, and to adapt, we combined. Metaphysically speaking, humanity and computers became one, except the body purists and people in lower society. He falls into the latter.

"... No."

AFFIRMATIVE

DELETION DECLINED

So about his opinion about Sage? He does trust machines, but Sage does not fall into that category. Screw him for being squeamish, even if Sage is just a magical equivalent of it, but that doesn't make it any less terrible. Besides, even most implants don't talk.

The mind is a man's world. It is his and his only.

"Do you have a customization feature?"

But hey, what choice does he have? The only thing he can do about it is to make Sage less creepy.

[Yes.]

"Well, you should've told that in the first place!" 

He replied with an obnoxious tone, and hearing himself talk in such a manner left a distasteful shame in his mouth. But Sage didn't mind, only giving a reply like any other.

[My self-introduction earlier was only interrupted.]

...

Maybe... he was acting a bit too unsettled about this whole thing, knowing that he shouldn't be. 

Fear is a primitive emotion completely obsolete in modern times, whose objective is to deduce and foresee danger not by pure analytical judgment based on solid observations, but through a cocktail of anxiety and dread.

Needless to say, should he let his survival be affected by fear, especially in this whole situation alone?

Should he not utilize this "Sage" at its fullest?

"Sorry."

[Apologies are unnecessary.]

...

He's being stupid. He's pulling himself away from pragmatism. Sage is right, there's no point being sorry for something that isn't even a person, or even be angry with it.

But his first priority, Sage's voice. No matter what he couldn't stand it.

"Can you change your tone to a more... lively and human-like?"

[Should I take yours as a reference?]

"Please don't," he said bluntly. That would make it more creepy. It'd be like he's talking to someone else who has his voice.

"Do you remember that slime? Try that instead, but... a bit more feminine."

[... I'll see what I can do.]

When he said feminine, he just thought it would be nice to hear a woman's voice. But hey, don't judge him. It's normal to like people of the opposite sex.

And he wonders what's taking Sage so long. But should he refer to Sage as "him", pertaining to his male, robotic tone? Sage never had a gender in the first place, just like how Samuel knows nothing of slime sexuality.

[Does... this satisfy your request?]

...

"Uhhh-"

If he were to judge Sage's... her voice, then it'd be more than satisfying. It's like she was the personification of an orchestra, of many elegant instruments combined to synthesize a melody befit of a goddess. It wouldn't be surprising at all if she was born from an angels' choir, able to vocalize a command the world can never disobey.

That's how she exceeds the level of satisfaction.

Or maybe it's an exaggeration.

"-hhhhhhhhhh."

[Should he take that as a no?]

"... I mean, it's... not that bad."

Jesus. That went zero to a hundred real fast.

To think even she could blow him out of the waters. He was a loyal fan who met his favorite singer in real life for the first time, that was how it felt like. But he shouldn't invest himself admiring an entity inside his head. She was nothing more than a pawn he can erase with a snap, an object made solely for servitude, that he should be aware of.

If there is something he should be concerned about, it is his fellow placed in dire trouble. For an ex-human who lived and bonded as one, why should other slimes matter to him? His biology had somewhat changed part of his mindset, his territorial obsession over his cave is a good example, but that was to be expected. 

He wants to save it, regardless of the risks. But at the same time, he doesn't. This internal conflict was giving him a headache. 

He can't let anyone enter his cave, but that would make him leave others to die outside.

[I hypothesize your frustration is coming from the conflicting psychology.]

"Yeah, I know."

He already realized that when he experienced that wolf's animosity not towards him as an individual, but to his race as a whole.

His theory is that if most hated slimes, everything hunts them down at any given opportunity. Meaning to say, mingling with other slimes would sabotage their cover, his refuge, and fighting back would only be a joke towards others. Hence why they only encounter during meal time.

That could explain the root cause of this instinct to drive his kin away from his sanctuary, an instinct that resulted from decades of evolution and experience to come up with this racial trait for the sake of self-preservation.

[The choice to save your kin isn't optional.]

"And what if he was the one in trouble?"

And Samuel detests it. This compulsive command makes him feel that he never had his individuality. It was like the slime body wasn't his, hinting that he may have gone transmigration instead, that the soul who originally owned his gooey body has its consciousness working at the backstage of his mind.

He won't leave anyone to die. Period. His will was stronger than a slime's basic instinct.

[They can't save you. They can't fight.]

"But that a-hole can be killed!"

[With great difficulty, yes.]

"That's why we'll need tools."

Samuel went outside.

With his surroundings having more detail, his eye's/eyes' improvement also increased his range of vision, evident by how the darkness of the tunnel - that was oddly linear mind you - became smaller by distance.

But that wasn't what he is supposed to be caring about.

[What do you mean by "we"?]

"I meant my own race. Think about it, the possibilities."

What made humanity the dominant race on Earth? It's their intellect, it's their ingenuity to invent, and it's their ability to learn and adapt.

But most of all, it's their power to use it.

Two hands, ten fingers. It was enough for humanity to thrive from the challenges of brutal nature, not because they can punch trees with it, but because they can hold stuff by it. In the dawn of mankind, with two hands they were able to hold their future, to hold weapons for hunting, to hold hoes that flourished agriculture, to hold pens that record the past.

And soon enough, to hold wrenches that breathe lives to machines.

Him? Given enough dexterity, he can make more than two.

Just imagining himself swinging many swords made him giggle.

"Ooh. There's a good one."

And to think he'd be enthusiastic over a long-looking pebble. To his knowledge, obsidian was a better candidate in the sharpness championship. What is his idea you ask? Why obviously to grind tools, except rubbing rocks onto another rock to turn it into a desirable form is so caveman, and he ain't no man. Besides, that would be time-consuming.

He absorbed the pebble, and applying how slimes eat, he nibbled the surface. Then little by little, he was tasting the unpleasant, non-nutritious fine particles that his body refused to ingest. A dark cloud surrounds the pebble, which his body automatically defecated. The long pebble was turning into a shape suitable for combat.

Technically speaking, he was carving stone into a knife by chewing. If anything, he's a living industrial milling machine that uses his own body's acid-like properties than carbide drills, to drill objects into the desired shapes.

"It's working! Haha! I'm making something!"

Then a revelation came as if to bring a prophecy. What if his whole kin knows of this? They have flexibility beyond anyone's standard. They have visual freedom that puts scouting drones to shame. They have a body and biology that enables them to manufacture.

That's what he learned in day one, and 24 hours hadn't passed yet. Just imagine that with a bit of time, research, and self-discovery, of all the things they could do, of all the untapped potential they can unlock. What if he had his people, and collaborate to do things anyone would think impossib-

[INCOMING THREAT!]

He was busy concentrating, and as a result, the wolf mid-air clawed him.

Almost.

In a fraction of second, like a basketball thrown professionally, he shot himself to his burrow. The wolf's claws hit the ground. It had enough reaction time to contort its neck to bite, but not enough speed for its fangs to reach. The slime entered his burrow like a meteor. 

"You slithery bastard! Come out!"

Samuel, hiding in his hidey-hole, shouted, "Well why don't you come in!"

"I can't!"

"You're a coward! That's why!"

Of course, with the wolf's gigantic build, it can only hope to excavate its way through the burrow. The wolf was beyond baffled. To think there was a slime who managed to escape from its paws twice, would actually exist in this world. Its hind legs were scraping the small entrance, snarling in agitation.

Samuel saw its dirty paws in his cave, and he felt a combination of anxiety and anger. It hoped to use its skin as camouflage to catch it after a glimpse of where he went, but it should learn that it'll take more than a half-hearted surprise to do so.

"I just can't fit inside moron!"

"Coward coward coward coward coward coward!"

"You're the one hiding! You're the coward!"

"Then makes you a dog-brained mutt!"

The wolf's patience became non-existent. Every fiber of its being is fixated on the suffering of this slime. Wrath in its most primal form overtook its reasoning. It barked and it kept doing so with a mix of growls, and each one was feral and powerful, capable of blasting brick houses off the ground.

"Keep barking! Fits for a dumb animal like you! "

Good, it's not digging, he thought, shaping his knife at the fastest pace possible while being precise at the best as he can be. Much to his dismay, the entrance of his cave was slowly getting bigger as it went back digging, shit, but he was confident it wouldn't be enough for the whole wolf's body to comfortably fit in. 

Until a quick reassessment showed it was enough for its calloused head. The wolf has the chance and it will not let the slime do as it pleased. The wolf thrusts its skull into the burrow much the same way the myth where ostriches plug theirs into the earth when spooked. Except the wolf wasn't scared at all. It was the complete opposite in fact.

"You're dead!"

"Get away from me you ugly-ass mongrel!" 

It was a miracle the burrow had a room big enough for him to avoid its fangs. Backing out as much as he can, looking like a deformed pancake flung to the wall, he felt its furious breath blowing him back. The wolf released a flurry of bites that never reached him. This was the perfect opportunity to stab, but his unfinished knife doesn't have the quality. The ground vibrated from the wolf's force. 

[Focus.]

And he did so. 

The world became silent as time went at snail's pace. He did his best to ignore the set of drool coated teeth, resuming production of his weapon that may be his only salvation.

Five inches... that was the distance between him and the grim reaper. The wolf drove and squeezed forward with the burning rage of a thousand suns.

Four inches... it was forcing its way in and the rugged leather of the bald canine was shredding material of the entrance opening.

Three inches... the knife in the making begins to show an edge. The wolf's jaw kept biting the air without stopping.

Two inches... little by little the weapon became defined. The tip was introducing its lethality.

One inch... in his monochromatic vision, the wolf's eyes were black.