1.3 H/O2

The XO Chronicles | Volume 1 | Chronicle 3

Leon had once been a respected Beast Hunter.
He became a monk after meeting Art —
to step back from the front line,
to try to live long enough
to see the boy grow up.

But he had always known
this was never meant to last.
And so he called Art his roommate —
as a way to carry the weight of it.

The morning rituals held,
despite the unusual night before.
The chanting, the bow, the silence —
the mountain breathing cold below the clouds.
By seven, the day's work was done.

Art and Leon sat at the small wooden table
and looked out the window together.
The words from the Halo
still rang in the space between them.

The tofu that morning was plain.
Art chewed it slowly,
not knowing how it could taste any different,
swallowed,
and asked:

"Why did you become a monk, Leon?"

Leon looked at him.
"To protect you."

"From what?"

Art already knew.
He needed to hear it said.

"From the Wild World.
As I have explained to you
many times."

Art held his gaze — steady, quiet, sharp.

"You wanted to protect me.
You didn't want me to leave this place.
I understand that.
But you knew about my father and my mother —
and you lied to me."

Something in his eyes did not move.

"Perhaps you also lied
about the Wild World?"

Leon looked down.
He rarely did.

When he looked up, his voice was measured:

"If I ever lied about the Wild World,
it was only in making it sound too easy.
A human being, alone out there,
would not survive a single day."

Art sat still.
His stare met Leon's and held its ground.

"I know you want to find her.
You should go."

Art's eyebrows rose, barely.
"But?"

"No but.
You heard your father.
She is waiting for you."

"But I —"

"But you are not ready yet.
Not experienced enough."

Art nodded slowly.

Leon turned and called one of the robots.
It came forward, quiet on its feet.
On its chest, in faded stencil: H/O2.

"H/O2 — how old are you?" Leon asked.

"I was manufactured in MF38,
operational in MF39.
Six or seven years old,
depending on your definition of beginning."

"What is your life expectancy?"

H/O2 considered the question
the way it considered all things —
with patience, and without vanity.

"That depends largely on my maintenance.
My batteries will hold for approximately fifteen years
before capacity drops to twenty-five percent.
Near zero in thirty.
And since my memory is solid-state,
once the power is gone,
discharge follows —
slow at first, then total.
In two or three years beyond that,
my soul would be lost beyond recovery.
What remained would be
metal and plastic in the shape of a thing that once thought.

Thirty-three years, at most —
unless given a rebirth.
The product data suggests forty.
I remain cautiously optimistic."

Leon nodded.

"Setting aside every duty you have here —
the temple, the routines, all of it —
if you had only your own life to answer to,
what would you want to do with it?
And why?"

H/O2's circular eyes became slow spinning rings.
A novel question.
It took its time.

"I would return to my origin.
I would try to improve the process —
the engineering of my kind —
so that those who came after me
might last longer than I will.

Because my purpose, as an organizer,
is to hold order against the rise of chaos.
To slow entropy for as long as I am able.
That means keeping the temple walls standing against the weather.
Your socks in your closet.
My memory — and that of many with a similar fate as me
— not discharged into thin air."

"Thank you, H/O2.
You may return to your duties."

The robot turned and went quietly back to its work.

Leon watched it go.
Then he looked at Art —
and the question arrived without weight,
from he who accepted death as fate:

"Do you know what your life expectancy is?
More importantly, your mother's?"

Art took a moment,
and stood up suddenly from the table.
His chair falls backwards,
H/O2 caught it just before it hit the ground,
and set it back in place.

"I am packing tonight.
I leave at first light."

"To help you stay alive for longer than a day,"
said Leon,
"I'll go with you."

Outside the window,
the clouds moved far below the summit —
vast, white, and slow.
Undisturbed by the decision.
Immune to any prediction.