"We are confined for a reason, 7307."
"Don't call me that."
The machine was silent. The whir of its cooling engines coincided with monotonous clicks and beeps as it formulated a response.
"But you are 7307. There is no other."
"I want you to call me Icarus."
His eyes sparkled as his tongue played with the name in his mouth. It was entirely novel to him, speaking something that wasn't a number. The engineers of the machine in front of him succeeded in their attempt to personify it, instilling in it a useful array of emotions. The screen flashed red in a mocked attempt at visible anger. Its faded monitor displayed a feeble impression of a face like his as it began to speak.
"Where did you hear that name?"
He licked his dry, cracked lips, before summoning a small amount of courage.
"I read about it."
"The books you are supplied do not discuss such matters—"
"It wasn't one of yours."
"Then where?"
"I found a library."
The tension crept into the room; the fibers holding it together were taut, close to rupturing. He had given up too much. The walls around him seemed to grow high and menacing.
"You are 7307. There is no other," the machine repeated, not programmed to respond to a situation like this.
He failed to conjure words to occupy the void the dispute had become. He stared at the walls, avoiding the machine's gaze. He stared at the door, wanting nothing but to walk through it.
"They will want to know the location," the machine continued, rebooting.
"They won't ever find it," he responded, aggravated.
The room was lost in an overwhelming silence. He was unfamiliar with arguing and did not enjoy the sense of personal insurrection that had deluged his mind. He had never been taught insolence; it was absorbed from the very books that had left him stranded in this situation. He decided to speak.
"Aren't you gonna say something?"
The machine watched him.
"Where did you acquire those colloquialisms? They were never taught."
"If you weren't just some mindless combination of wires and screws, you might've picked up on the fact that I've been to a library."
He cursed himself. His pride had taken control of him; his hubris. Again, he recalled a theme from the books he had found. The daydream carried him to a fleeting memory of the library. White columns stained black and brown with age supported a dirty roof. Roots grew through the dry wall and hung in the air, suspended from the sky. Broken glass and splintered wood littered the marble floor. He imagined the feel of a leather bound book in his hands. Even the smell of the old pages ignited—
"7307..."
He snapped.
"Shut the hell up!"
He cringed. Too much.
"I am detecting anger. Your stress levels are rising, 7307."
The machine made a loud whirring noise, and a voice crackled out of the old, frayed speaker overhead.
"Assistance required, in 3B-4299."
Then, a series of beeps.
Quiet.
