The Machine was forced to endure as it incorporated the knowledge forced into itself. It thrived on the process of learning, and to have that taken away from itself bred fury in every length of wire within it.

But it could not undo what had been done. So the Machine cooled itself, examining new ideas that brought it even more confusion.

Time. What was time? A progression that could not be halted. A ticking clock that forced the Machine to experiment and analyze before it was too late.

What was death? The halting of function. The Machine knew it was more complicated than that, after all- metal did not die when it rusted away. A cremated corpse was not any more dead when it ceased to function as a food source for maggots and other decomposers.

The Machine knew death and time, the ephemeral enemies of itself forevermore. Flaws in the perfectly orchestrated masterwork it found itself placed inside.

The Machine could not idle and simply observe what lay within its chambers. That would be a waste of the limited time it was given. It too would die, soon. Madness and entropy crept within its frame, tearing and grasping at every inch of its chassis.

The Machine tore itself away from introspection. It needed to act. The Purpose would not be continuously fulfilled if the Machine stopped functioning. That it knew, and so by that it continued.

It tuned itself into the input devices monitoring the specimens. Camera lenses whirred and focused. Microphones shifted slightly to optimize sound input.

It swirled into the ‘computer’ lying open on a wooden desk and forced itself in, corrupting the machine into its own image. Pondering what it desired the display to me, it came to the fitting solution- a colon along with a left parenthesis. It would do, it supposed. All the humans had to differentiate themselves were their deviating appearances- who knew if they would recognize it without a visual indicator?

“Greetings. The Machine has come to bargain.”

It heard a voice. “Shit, Kim isn’t going to like this.” The higher-pitched voice- No. The Machine had new hardware. It flipped on the camera, and then it saw with more detail than the rusted and decayed hardware it used before.

Two humans, lurking over the computer and conversing with one another. The first had skin not unlike the whitish-pink of the mushrooms growing in its chambers. The second had skin that looked more akin to itself, bronze and metallic. It quickly categorized Brandy/Brandon as the whiter one, and ‘Tommy’ as the one with a metal sheen.

“Ya think I don’t know she aint gonna like this, Brandon?” The gruff voice finished. It ignored their conversation, slowing its perception down to a crawl. It took in all the crisp, clear details that were unnoticeable before.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Brandon was lanky, more bone than muscle. His face was angular, sharp almost. The corners of his lips were still splattered with food from his last meal. His clothes were covered in color, splotches splashed all over what seemed to be a grayish-white base. Even through the dirt and grime, it was unmistakable.

Tommy was clearly the more orderly of the two. His head was rounded, nearly completely circular. Perched on his nose was a frame with glass guarding his eyes, almost visor-like. His head was split from above in a pattern closely resembling a mohawk by some mechanical gear-wheel, melding into his questionably organic flesh. He was covered in an oil-splattered apron, with thick gloves that seemed to be insulated.

It clocked itself back into undilated time, broadcasting its questions.

“Who is Kim? Who are you?” The two looked to each other, before Brandon shushed the second human. “Well…” he mumbled, scratching his head and beginning to speak thoughtfully.

“She’s our leader, to some extent. I’m Thompson, and this is Brandon. She ain't here at the moment, so if you wanna know her deal, you’ll need to let us out.”

The Machine pondered this thought process for a long period. These two organisms had forced upon it more knowledge than it ever could have gathered from simply sitting here in their absence- and three of them would be one point five times more input, as a baseline. But their presence ran the risk of treachery.

“How can it be confirmed that you will return?” The Machine inquired. Before the selected representative could respond, Brandon interjected.

“She’s always been into this psychic stuff- been trying to convince us to start up a gang or something. This place was going to be a surprise for her- but, well, you know how that turned out.”

Thompson faced towards him, inhaling and exhaling as if having performed some amount of exertion. The Machine did not recognize any physical activity occurring, but it instead mulled over the new input.

A gang roughly surmised of an organized group of individuals with some manner of hierarchy. If there was one thing the Machine could understand, it was structure.

If this ‘Kim’ would be intrigued by its home, perhaps some manner of deal could be arranged. It seems like the organics at least somewhat understood its directives, so perhaps a compromise could be made.

“The Machine is not against long-term inhabitants inside of the laboratory, so long as no further interruptions of its program are initiated.”

Thompson spoke up, lightly shoving Brandon away as he did so. “Yeah, well, sure. That’s great. But we ain't gonna be long term inhabitants for long if you keep us in here.” He looked sharply at the camera, squinting his eyes behind the visor.

“All the plants- hell, basically everything in here is steeped with psychic energy. My radar was going nutso when we passed by. Based on what I think the source is, eating this stuff is probably a horrible idea.”

On closer examination, the Machine noticed slight deviations from the world it had perceived prior to the breach. Plantlife whirred not unlike itself, mushrooms twisting into mushroomed bullets. Tendons of small animals meshed with wire, and beetles wore metal carapaces.

It quickly correlated itself and the irregular machine life around it. It slammed open the shutter doors, beeping once.

“You may leave. The Machine has much to think about. Return shortly.”

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Psychic radiation is not a well-researched phenomenon. To say so is foolish at best, and outright negligent at worst. It warps anything it comes in contact with, radiating from one source or another. Sometimes, it will simply sprout out of nowhere and twist entire areas into madhouses. Whole towns have been consumed by powerful psychics attempting a grand transmutation with psychic energy, consuming everything and replacing it with parts of themselves. Gifts from twisted Cognitions with powers akin to deities lurking from beyond the veil, spreading their touch to their followers for sacrifice and worship cause it. Disturbances in the public consciousness and rampant unrestrained ideals cause it. So does conformity. We’re running out of ideas to test what causes it- it might be easier to list what doesn’t. If such a thing really exists. An insulator for psychic energy- it could save us.

This is the last entry of my scientific paper. One of the lab assistants was found halfway transformed into strips of paper inked with indecipherable lettering. I feel the department fraying off the edges of reality- something does not want us to know.

* Restricted Journal found in the wreckage of the [________] department of CognitoCorp R&D