Dawn in the deep woods was not a gentle awakening. It was a cacophony of strange birdcalls, the scuttling of unseen things in the undergrowth, and a damp chill that seeped into Kaelin’s bones. She awoke curled in the roots of a great tree, stiff, hungry, and acutely aware of three voices already at war.
AZRAEL: “The first order of business is sanctifying this temporary dwelling. A prayer for protection, a methodical clearing of debris—”
MAMMON: “SCREW THAT. My order of business is breakfast. I saw a fuzzy thing with big eyes last night. Looked delicious. Let’s hunt it.”
IRIS: “Activating ‘Base Establishment Protocol 0.1’. Primary objective: Secure sustainable water source. Secondary objective: Construct defensible shelter. Tertiary objective: Identify non-toxic caloric sources. The fuzzy thing with big eyes is a Gloom-Squirrel. Toxicity probability: 78%. Consumption would result in: violent hallucinations, followed by coma.”
MAMMON: “So? Hallucinations sound fun. Azrael could see his precious clouds, I could see a mountain of tits. Everyone wins.”
AZRAEL: “By the Divine Choir, your vulgarity is a blight upon this pristine morning! We require nourishment, not hedonistic poisoning!”
Their first collaborative project—finding water—was a disaster in three-part harmony. Azrael insisted on listening for “the gentle trickle of benevolent springs.” Mammon argued they should “follow the slimy trails to where the party’s at.” Kaelin’s path through the forest became a drunken zigzag.
IRIS: “Statistical analysis: At this rate of directional conflict, hydration will be achieved in approximately 4.7 days. Mortality from dehydration: 3.2 days. Suggestion: Allow me to control auditory processing and follow the gradient of increased moisture in the soil.”
MAMMON: “Oh, so the toaster oven wants to drive? Last time you ‘calculated’ a path, we face-planted into a spiderweb the size of a house!”
AZRAEL: “Her logic, while sterile, is sound. Mammon, your ‘slimy trail’ is leading us toward what appears to be a carnivorous sludge-mold.”
IRIS: “Correction: It is a carnivorous sludge-mold. Digestive process: slow and agonizing. A fascinating way to die, if you enjoy being soup.”
Eventually, sheer thirst forced a truce. They found a stream. The next battle was over how to drink.
AZRAEL: “We must boil it first! Unknown pathogens!”
MAMMON: “BOIL IT WITH WHAT, YOUR HOLY SENSE OF DUTY? JUST GULP IT DOWN, OUR GUTS ARE TOUGH!”
IRIS: “Scanning. Water contains minimal harmful bacteria. Elf constitution can handle it. However, it also contains trace amounts of leech larvae. They will attach to your intestinal lining and feed for weeks.”
A beat of horrified silence.
MAMMON: “… Fine. We’ll boil it.”
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
AZRAEL: “A moment of prudent agreement. A miracle.”
Building a shelter was worse. Azrael envisioned a “structurally sound, symmetrical lean-to with proper runoff.” Mammon wanted a “hidden pit trap with a roof, so we can drop on stuff.” Kaelin’s hands would start weaving branches neatly, only to suddenly try to dig a hole, resulting in a sad pile of sticks and dirt.
IRIS: “Observational note: Your combined architectural prowess is producing something that resembles a beaver’s nervous breakdown. I am archiving this design under ‘How Not To.’”
AZRAEL: “Your commentary is not helpful, machine!”
MAMMON: “Yeah, shut your data-port, rust-bucket!”
IRIS: “My systems are carbon-nanofilament, not ferrous. And my ‘data-port,’ as you crudely put it, is the only reason you’re not currently drinking leech smoothies.”
The bickering reached its peak when trying to start a fire. Azrael painstakingly gathered the driest tinder. Mammon, in control of the hands, immediately tried to smash two rocks together with violent, useless enthusiasm.
IRIS: “The friction method requires a specific technique. You are currently just making noise and chipping quartz. It is the pyro-equivalent of shouting at wood to be afraid of you.”
MAMMON: “WELL MAYBE IF YOU GOT OFF YOUR VIRTUAL ASS AND HELPED!”
AZRAEL: “Such language! This is a delicate art!”
IRIS: “I am helping. By calculating the exact moment your collective frustration will peak. It is now. Emotional Dampening overload in 3… 2…”
It wasn’t a tantrum. It was colder, sharper. A unified wave of pure, focused annoyance—not at each other, for once, but at the smug, all-knowing voice narrating their failures.
AZRAEL & MAMMON (in rare unison): “SILENCE, IRIS!”
Kaelin’s voice echoed it out loud into the clearing. “SHUT UP, IRIS!”
There was a blessed, silent pause. IRIS didn’t respond. For a whole minute, there was only the sound of the stream and the wind.
MAMMON (whispering internally): “… Did we break her?”
AZRAEL: “Unlikely. But the quiet is… agreeable.”
MAMMON: “Hey, tin-can. You still with us? Gonna call our fire-starting ‘emotionally stunted’ again?”
A new, flat, completely synthetic voice spoke. It was IRIS, but stripped of all inflection. “PROTOCOL UPDATE. DIRECTIVE: NON-INTERFERENCE IN PRIMARY TASK INITIATION ACTIVATED. OBSERVATION MODE: PASSIVE.”
It was maddening. She was following orders by not helping. It was the most irritating form of compliance imaginable.
Grunting with effort, Azrael and Mammon, in a clumsy, unspoken pact of spite, managed to guide Kaelin’s hands. Azrael focused on the precise, rapid twirling of a stick. Mammon channeled impatient, forceful energy into the downward pressure. There was no grace, only gritty determination.
A wisp of smoke appeared. Then a glowing ember. They gently transferred it to the tinder, Azrael blowing with controlled breaths, Mammon willing it to burn, damn it.
A tiny flame sputtered to life.
It was a pathetic, smoky little fire. But it was theirs. Made not in harmony, but in mutual annoyance towards a common enemy.
IRIS (still in flat tone): “TASK COMPLETED. EFFICIENCY RATING: 17%. SUCCESSFUL IGNITION ACHIEVED.”
MAMMON: “SEE? WE DON’T NEED YOUR ASS!”
AZRAEL: “Indeed. A humble flame, born of perseverance.”
IRIS: “AND 83% WASTED ENERGY DUE TO INTERNAL CONFLICT. BUT YES. CELEBRATE THE 17%.”
They spent the evening in a tense, exhausted quiet, huddled around their meager fire, chewing on bland but safe roots IRIS had silently highlighted on their visual feed earlier. The silence wasn’t peaceful, but it was a ceasefire.
IRIS LOG – ENTRY 22.1:
“Day 1 concluded. Base parameters met: Water (filtered), Shelter (minimally viable), Fire (achieved). Primary observation: The ‘Common Front’ strategy, wherein I become the antagonistic focal point, increases their short-term cooperative output by approximately 40%. Efficiency remains abysmal, but survivable.
Note: The ‘Silent Treatment Protocol’ provoked them more effectively than emotional analysis. Filing under ‘Effective Motivational Tools.’
Days until mandated return: 83. Probability of them killing each other before then: 32%. Down from 45% this morning. Progress.”
As Kaelin drifted into a fitful sleep, the last thing she heard was Mammon’s grumble and Azrael’s sigh, both aimed at the same invisible, infuriating presence.
MAMMON: “Tomorrow, we find something with actual flavor. Or I’m using the fire to try and roast that smug AI’s voice box.”
AZRAEL: “An idle threat. But one whose sentiment I… reluctantly comprehend.”
The fortress, on its first day, had learned one crucial thing: its walls were built not just from branches and will, but from shared, profound irritation. It was a start.
