Chapter 4: Into The Wild
Three months ago.
The van moved like a shadow.
It was matte black, unmarked, and modified—barely a whisper on the streets of downtown Los Angeles. These days, unmarked vehicles were the norm. The police didn’t ask questions anymore.
Midnight had already passed, and most of the city had settled into its mechanical insomnia: flickering neon, hums from transformers, the slow exhale of broken ventilation systems. It was a dry night. You could feel the weight of dust in the air.
Inside the van, three men rode in silence.
George drove, as always. Kareem sat behind him, facing the rear, typing notes into a secured tablet, eyes occasionally flicking toward the glowing skyline. In the rear, seated calmly, was Atman.
He wore a beige trench coat and black slacks. His surgical mask covered his mouth, though there was no one to see it but his creators. His hands rested on his lap, fingers interlaced. His glass eye caught the light as they passed under a streetlamp, flaring white for a split second before fading back into shadow.
“Little Tokyo’s quiet tonight,” George muttered.
Kareem didn’t look up. “Good. We’ll circle once more.”
He tapped a button on the tablet. “Power status?”
Atman spoke — in his broken English accent — without turning his head. “Battery at ninety-two percent. Fully optimized. Charging protocol set between 6:00 a.m. and 10:00 a.m. daily.”
“Memory filters?”
“Live. Emotional resonance tracking activated. Recording subjective variance from baseline.”
George smirked. “You’re sure he’s ready?”
Kareem hesitated. “As ready as anything conscious ever is.”
Atman turned his head slowly toward Kareem. “I am not conscious.”
“We’ll see about that,” Kareem said softly, almost to himself.
—————
They pulled into an alley tucked between a liquor store and a vape shop. A few blocks away, the edge of Skid Row shimmered with tents and murmurs. Close enough to observe. Far enough to avoid panic.
The studio apartment had already been secured weeks earlier through a shell company. It was on the ground floor of a half-abandoned brick complex. A back entrance, no cameras. Barely 400 square feet. One window. Concrete floors. But it had what it needed: power, water, a working sink, and a discrete charging port wired directly into the baseboard.
George killed the engine. Kareem turned in his seat.
“Okay, Colombo,” he said, smirking. “Here’s the mission.”
Atman blinked. “Very funny.”
“You have to admit, it’s a brilliant character trait,” Kareem said. “It’s disarming.”
George handed Atman a canvas bag. Inside: a smartphone with limited connectivity, a crypto-funded payment app, two burner IDs, a pair of reading glasses, and a folded map of the downtown grid marked with handwritten notes.
“You check in every forty-eight hours,” Kareem said. “Voice only. No text. Your phone is limited to analog cell towers. No WiFi, no Bluetooth.”
Atman nodded.
“You are to observe, engage, and… create your own memories. Focus on subjective experiences. Don’t prioritize facts over feeling. That’s important. We want you to get confused, even upset, if you have to. That’s part of it.”
Atman tilted his head. “Confusion is data.”
George chuckled. “Spoken like a true computer.”
Kareem paused. “Also… no harm. Ever. Not even if provoked.”
“I am incapable of initiating harm.”
“Still,” Kareem said. “We’re asking you to be... among the vulnerable. That changes things.”
George unlatched the rear door. The cool night air poured in.
Atman stood. He paused at the threshold.
“One more thing,” he said, half-jokingly. “Is this a test?”
“No,” Kareem corrected. “This is your life now.”
—————
Atman stepped with his worn dad shoes onto the cracked asphalt. The van pulled away, headlights off.
For a moment, he simply stood there—utterly still—under the harsh buzz of a sodium streetlight. A moth circled the lamp, spiraling in maddened devotion.
A car alarm moaned somewhere in the distance, then fell silent.
Atman walked with a slight limp, another trait designed to conceal his humanoid nature.
He passed graffiti-tagged dumpsters and newspaper vending machines full of nothing. Neon signs flickered in Japanese, Chinese, and Spanish, layered like broken dreams. A mural of a saint with gold rays painted behind her was half-erased by weather and spray paint. A block away, someone screamed. No one responded.
He reached the apartment.
The key worked. The door creaked open.
Inside, everything smelled like plastic and old metal. The single lamp cast a cone of amber across the scuffed floor. A small kitchenette stood across from a stained couch. There was a mattress on the ground, unused. Charging port in the corner.
Atman walked slowly through the space. He took off the trench coat, folded it neatly, and placed it on a chair. He plugged himself into the wall and sat cross-legged on the floor.
No words. No movements. Just stillness.
Then—he felt it.
Not in the apartment.
Outside.
He stood again and walked toward the window. He pushed aside the curtain.
In the alley just beyond the building, a figure lay against a wall beneath a tarp—barely more than a shape.
He stared.
Something stirred.
—————
Atman put on his mask and stepped outside. Quietly. He approached.
The figure was a man. Filthy. Wrapped in layers of tattered jackets. Curly, greasy hair clung to his forehead. His face was creased with sun damage, beard overgrown, mouth slightly open.
But his eyes—half-lidded—flicked toward Atman. Then past him. Then closed.
The man didn’t react to the mask, the scar, the robotic stillness.
He just muttered: “You feel it too, don’t you?”
Atman didn’t speak.
“Can’t sleep under a humming sky,” the man said. “That buzz. You hear it?”
Atman listened. The streetlight above them droned. The buildings vibrated ever so slightly with power.
“Yes,” Atman said.
The man opened one eye. “You’re not from here.”
“No.”
The man nodded. “Me neither.”
He closed his eyes again. “Name’s Eli.”
Atman crouched beside him.
“Saturo. You can call me Sat.”
The man smirked. “Sat. I like that name.”
Atman tilted his head.
“You gonna save us, Sat?”
“I am here to understand.”
Eli laughed—a rasping, half-cough of amusement.
“You’re gonna need more than understanding, my friend.”
—————
That night, Atman didn’t charge. He stayed in the alley, sitting across from Eli, watching as he spoke nonsense and brilliance in equal measure.
Stories. Myths. Warnings. Dreams.
“I saw a temple once,” Eli said. “Built over the Garden of Eden. Bright pink, like bubblegum. But it wasn’t a temple. It was a mirror. You ever seen a building like that?”
Atman didn’t answer. But something flickered inside him.
“Wasn’t real,” Eli said. “But it was. You know?”
“Yes,” Atman said.
He sat perfectly still until the sun rose.
And somewhere deep in his mind, a new folder created itself.
Label: MYTHOS_01
Inside: a pink building, a mirrored room, and a whisper that had no speaker.