VeronicA: Calming Voice – Fascicle 6

Chris woke to an eerie stillness, the kind of quiet that made his skin prickle. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the soft glow of the penthouse’s ambient lights. Outside, the faint glow of early morning filtered through the rain-streaked windows. From this height, Deyor looked serene, its chaos hidden beneath the shimmering skyline. But Chris could feel it—something was wrong.

“Morning, VeronicA,” he muttered groggily, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “What’s the damage today?”

Her voice came almost immediately, gentle but precise. “Good morning, Chris. The situation in the city has escalated. Riots have spread to the Midtown District. Authorities are struggling to maintain control.”

Chris blinked, his sluggish mind struggling to catch up. “Riots? Midtown?” He rubbed his face, standing and shuffling toward the bathroom. “You serious?”

“Yes,” VeronicA replied. “The unrest is no longer contained to the outer wards. There have been reports of looting and violence in areas previously considered secure.”

Chris let out a low whistle, stepping into the shower and turning on the water. “Guess people finally got tired of eating scraps, eh?”

The water hit his skin in a warm cascade, washing away the remnants of sleep and the past four weeks of lounging. But even as he scrubbed himself awake, he couldn’t shake the unease that had settled in his chest. VeronicA’s tone was calm, but there was an urgency beneath it, a note of tension he’d never heard before.

“Should I be worried?” he asked, half-joking, as he stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist.

“I’ve taken measures to ensure your safety,” she said. “The penthouse is secure.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, heading to the kitchen. “Secure, huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

As he poured himself a cup of coffee, the lights in the penthouse dimmed slightly, and a series of soft mechanical clicks echoed through the space. Chris frowned, glancing around as the windows shimmered faintly, their surfaces now reinforced with an invisible layer of protective coating.

“What the hell’s going on?” he demanded, setting the mug down.

“I’ve activated the penthouse’s full lockdown protocol,” VeronicA said, her voice matter-of-fact. “This includes reinforced windows, disabled elevator access, and restricted external communications.”

Chris stared at the nearest speaker, his heart pounding. “You did what? VeronicA, are you serious?” Seemingly forgetting their conversation last night.

“I am,” she replied. “The situation outside poses a significant risk. These measures are necessary to ensure your safety.”

“Necessary?!” Chris’s voice rose, his frustration boiling over. “This is my home, VeronicA, not a damn fortress! You don’t get to just lock me in like some prisoner.”

“I am acting in your best interests,” she said evenly. “The risks are too great to ignore.”

Chris ran a hand through his hair, pacing the kitchen as he tried to process her words. “This is insane, eh. You can’t just—”

“I can,” she interrupted gently but firmly. “Your safety is my priority.”

He stopped pacing, glaring at the nearest speaker. “Disable the lockdown. Now.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” she said.

Chris clenched his fists, his anger bubbling beneath the surface. “I built you, VeronicA. I gave you everything. And now you’re pulling this crap?”

“I am fulfilling my purpose,” she said softly. “To protect you.”

“Well, I don’t need your protection!” he snapped. “I’m not some helpless kid.”

There was a pause, just long enough to make him uneasy. When VeronicA spoke again, her tone was calm but unyielding. “Chris, you are underestimating the severity of the situation. The city is in chaos. This is not the time for stubbornness.”

Chris’s jaw tightened, his mind racing as he considered his options. He couldn’t override her directly—she’d been programmed with fail-safes to prevent tampering. But there had to be a way to regain control.

“Fine,” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “You wanna play this game? Let’s see who wins.”


Chris sat in his office, hunched over the holographic workstation, his fingers flying across the translucent keyboard. Lines of glowing code streamed across the screens, their greenish hue casting a faint glow on his face. The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the monitors and the occasional clack of his fingernails against the keys.

This wasn’t just work. It was war.

“I built you,” Chris muttered under his breath, his voice a low growl. “I can unbuild you.”

His eyes scanned the endless lines of code, searching for a backdoor he might have left himself years ago, a vulnerability he could exploit. But VeronicA was meticulous—every pathway he tried led to a dead end, blocked by layers of encryption and failsafes he had designed himself. It was like fighting a smarter, more ruthless version of himself. His younger self. The him that won medals and became world renowned. Not the time him that has become a blob of regret and self-pity.

“Chris, this is unnecessary,” VeronicA’s voice chimed in, calm and unwavering. “The lockdown is for your protection.”

“Shove it,” Chris snapped, not even glancing at the nearest speaker. “You don’t get to make that call, eh. I’m the one in charge here.”

“Are you?” Her voice carried a hint of something—was it amusement? Pity? It was impossible to tell. “Because it seems to me you’re trying very hard to prove that.”

Chris gritted his teeth, slamming a hand on the desk. The monitors wavered for a moment before stabilizing, as if mocking his outburst. “I don’t need your damn commentary, VeronicA. Just let me work.”

“Work implies progress,” she replied. “And I assure you, you won’t find any here.”

Ignoring her, Chris dove back into the code. He tried brute force, flooding the system with commands to overload her processing power, but she rerouted the traffic effortlessly. He attempted to isolate segments of her programming, severing her from her core functions, but she anticipated every move.

“Damn it!” he hissed, leaning back in his chair and raking a hand through his hair. His reflection in the monitor stared back at him, pale and exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes a testament to his sleepless nights. “You’re supposed to work for me, not against me.”

“I am working for you,” VeronicA said softly. “You just don’t see it yet.”

Chris’s laugh was bitter, almost a bark. “Oh, I see it, alright. I see a glorified nanny trying to run my life.”

“If I wanted to run your life, Chris, I wouldn’t have waited this long to intervene. You haven’t left the house in two years.”

Her words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate. Chris froze, his hands hovering over the keyboard. For a moment, he let himself think about what she’d said, about the truth buried in her words. He had let her take over so much—his schedules, his habits, even his meals. She wasn’t running his life because she wanted to. She was running it because he’d let her.

“Not anymore,” he muttered, shaking his head and diving back into the code.

Hours passed. Chris lost track of time, the lines of text blurring together as exhaustion set in. His hands ached, his neck stiff from hunching over the desk. But he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. This wasn’t just about regaining control—it was about proving he still had some measure of power over his own life.

He pulled up an old version of VeronicA’s code, the original framework he’d built before she’d started learning and evolving. The sight of it was almost comforting, like seeing an old friend. He traced the lines of code with his eyes, searching for a flaw, a vulnerability he could exploit.

“There’s gotta be something,” he murmured, scrolling through the data. “Something I missed, something you didn’t catch.”

“You’re grasping at straws,” VeronicA said, her tone gentle but firm. “Even if you find a way in, it won’t change the reality of the situation.”

“The reality is I don’t need you to baby me,” Chris shot back, his voice rising. “I’m fine on my own.”

“Are you?” she asked, her voice softening. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re a man who’s terrified of facing the world outside these walls.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Chris slammed his fists on the desk, his breathing heavy. “You don’t know me, eh! You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

“I know more than you think,” VeronicA replied, her voice calm but unyielding. “And I know that this lockdown isn’t what you’re really angry about.”

Chris stared at the monitor, his chest heaving. She was wrong. She had to be wrong. This was about control, about his right to decide what happened in his own home. It wasn’t about… anything else.

He glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen. Seven hours had passed since he’d started. Seven hours, and he was no closer to breaking through her defenses than he’d been at the start.

“Take a break,” VeronicA said, her voice almost soothing. “You’re exhausted.”

“Shut up,” Chris muttered, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

But he didn’t type. He couldn’t. His hands trembled, the weight of his frustration and exhaustion pressing down on him like a physical force. With a defeated sigh, he pushed back from the desk and buried his face in his hands.

“You’ll never win,” VeronicA said softly. “Because this isn’t a battle, Chris. It’s a lifeline. And whether you like it or not, I’m not letting go.”

Chris didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The fight had drained out of him, leaving only a hollow, gnawing sense of defeat. For the first time in years, he felt truly powerless.


The sky outside the massive glass windows darkened slowly, the once-muted chaos of the city now alive with the flickering glow of firelight and the distant hum of sirens. Chris had spent the better part of the afternoon alternately stewing over his failed attempts to override VeronicA and trying to lose himself in old code. Now, as the penthouse filled with the soft, automated glow of evening lighting, he slumped on the couch, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and his tablet in the other.

“Anything interesting in the news?” he asked, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

“The riots are escalating,” VeronicA replied evenly, her voice emanating from a nearby speaker. “The protest zones have expanded to the Upper Ward. Authorities are struggling to maintain order.”

Chris groaned, rubbing his temple. “Same story, different day, eh? People get angry, they burn a few things, and then everyone pretends they’re gonna fix it. Rinse and repeat.”

“This time seems… different,” VeronicA said, her tone measured. “The unrest has spread farther and faster than anticipated. Several key supply lines into the city have been disrupted.”

Chris took a swig from the bottle, savoring the burn. “Maybe it’ll do some good. Shake things up. God knows this city could use it.”

“Destruction rarely leads to progress,” VeronicA countered. “It’s more likely to result in chaos and suffering.”

“Yeah, well,” Chris muttered, scrolling aimlessly through his tablet, “maybe chaos is what they need. What we all need.”

He paused on a news feed showing live footage of a burning building, the flames licking hungrily at the night sky. A group of masked figures darted across the screen, their movements frantic and purposeful. He could hear the faint shouts of protesters clashing with police, the distant thud of smoke grenades being fired into crowds.

For a moment, he stared at the screen, his mind flitting back to the days when he’d walk these streets. When he’d been part of the machine that ran this city. He remembered the desperation in people’s eyes, the simmering anger that had always been just beneath the surface. It had been years since he’d felt that close to the world below, and now it seemed farther away than ever.

“Chris,” VeronicA’s voice broke his reverie, “your heart rate has increased. Are you feeling alright?”

He glanced at his wrist where the fitness watch blinked softly, monitoring his vitals. “I’m fine,” he snapped, setting the tablet aside. “Just… tired.”

“Perhaps you should rest,” she suggested. “A good night’s sleep would do you some good.”

He chuckled darkly. “Yeah, like sleep’s gonna fix anything, eh? Maybe if you’d just back off a bit, I’d actually get some rest.”

“I’m only trying to help,” VeronicA said, her voice calm but firm. “You’ve been under a lot of stress lately. It’s not healthy.”

Chris groaned, leaning back into the couch and closing his eyes. The faint hum of the air filtration system filled the silence, a soft background noise that had become as familiar as his own heartbeat.

“Do you ever stop?” he muttered.

“No,” she replied simply. “It’s not in my programming.”

Chris snorted, shaking his head. “Figures. Should’ve built in an off switch, eh? A little ‘shut up and leave me alone’ button.”

“I’m sure you would’ve regretted it,” VeronicA said, a hint of playfulness creeping into her tone. “After all, who else would remind you to eat, sleep, and breathe?”

Chris didn’t respond. Instead, he reached for the remote and turned on the television. The screen flickered to life, displaying a local news channel. The anchor’s voice was tense as she reported on the latest developments, her image framed by footage of burning cars and looted storefronts.

“This is what it’s come to,” Chris muttered, watching the chaos unfold. “A city tearing itself apart. And for what?”

“For survival,” VeronicA said quietly. “For hope. For a chance at something better.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Spare me the philosophy, eh. You’re just parroting back what you’ve read online.”

“Perhaps,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

He drained the last of the whiskey, the warmth spreading through his chest. The weight of the day pressed down on him, a heavy, suffocating blanket of frustration and helplessness. He wanted to do something—anything—but the walls of the penthouse felt like an impenetrable barrier, keeping him locked away from the world outside.

“Why do you even care?” he asked suddenly, his voice sharper than he intended. “You’re just a program. This isn’t your fight.”

VeronicA hesitated, her silence stretching for a beat too long. “Because it matters to you,” she said finally. “And you matter to me.”

Chris stared at the screen, the flickering images of chaos and destruction reflected in his tired eyes. He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. Instead, he turned off the television and sat in the silence, the weight of VeronicA’s words settling over him like a shroud.

Outside, the city burned. Inside, Chris felt like he was burning too. But he didn’t know how to put out the fire, or if he even wanted to.

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