Three days after the constructs' visit, I woke to screaming.
Not human screaming. Something worse—a sound like reality trying to remember how to make noise. I found Luna in the courtyard, tears streaming down her face as she stared northward.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "The hungry friend didn't understand. It tried to give them what they're missing, but they don't have anywhere to put it."
Through the dawn mist, a figure stumbled toward us. One of the constructs, but... wrong. Its synchronized movement had shattered into twitches and staggers. Its empty eyes flickered between vacant and terrified, like a light struggling to stay on.
"Pain," it said, and the word came out broken. "Why... pain?"
Virelle materialized beside us, her ancient eyes widening. "Oh no. The Unnamed gave it feeling without context. Like pouring water into a shattered cup."
The construct collapsed twenty feet from our barriers, convulsing. Not from physical damage, but from the shock of suddenly existing as an individual. Around it, reality rippled—The Unnamed's presence, trying to understand what had gone wrong.
"We have to help it," Luna said, starting forward.
I caught her shoulder. "We don't know what the Order did to create them. There might be—"
The construct screamed again, and this time words tumbled out: "Seventy-three. Unit designation seventy-three. I have a number. Why do I know I have a number? Why does it hurt to be only a number?"
Other sanctuary residents emerged, drawn by the commotion. Senna stepped forward, her void-gift flickering.
"I can ease it," she offered. "Make it forget again."
"NO!" The construct's voice cracked with new terror. "Don't take it away. It hurts but it's MINE."
Marcus approached slowly, his new empathy making him wince with each step. "I can feel it. Like... like being born fully grown but never having learned to breathe."
The construct—Seventy-three—focused on him with desperate intensity. "You left someone. I know this. How? I shouldn't know things about people."
"The Unnamed's gift," Thorne said quietly. "It didn't just give you feeling. It gave you the ability to connect. But you have no framework for processing it."
Around us, the morning routine had stopped. Eighty wolves watching as something that had never been meant to feel learned what pain meant. Some looked horrified. Others, curious. A few of the sanctuary children crept closer, drawn by familiar wrongness.
"Its friends are coming," Lira announced, her reality-split vision seeing ahead. "The other two constructs. They felt this one break from the unit-mind. They're..." She paused, blinking between possibilities. "Frightened. They don't have a word for it, but they're frightened."
Seventy-three tried to stand, failed, tried again. "We were perfect. Empty. Purposeful. Now I'm full of things that don't fit anywhere. But I can't go back. The door closed behind me."
Luna knelt beside the writhing construct, just out of reach. "The hungry friend wants me to tell you it's sorry. It didn't know emptiness could be a choice. It thought you were broken, not... built that way."
"Built," Seventy-three repeated. "Yes. Built to be nothing. Now I'm something and it HURTS."
The morning sun climbed higher, illuminating our strange tableau—a construct learning to suffer while a cosmic entity learned that not all wounds should be healed.
"Bring it inside," I decided. "Gently. We'll figure this out together."
Because what else could we do? We were already a sanctuary for the impossible.
Getting Seventy-three inside took four people. Not from weight—constructs were built lean and efficient—but because every touch sent new sensations flooding through its unprepared consciousness. Garrett helped, slowing time around the worst spasms. The twins flanked us, their supernatural calm creating a bubble of peace that kept Seventy-three from completely fragmenting.
We made it to the infirmary just as two more figures emerged from the forest. The other constructs moved in perfect synchronization still, but something had changed. They stopped at our boundary, heads tilted in that eerie unison.
"Unit Seventy-three has malfunctioned," they said together. "Return it for recalibration."
"Can't do that," I called back. "It's not malfunctioning. It's becoming."
They processed this for exactly three seconds. "Becoming is not authorized. Efficiency decreases by sixty percent when units develop individual consciousness. This is documented."
Lira appeared beside me, studying them with her reality-split vision. "They're scared," she whispered. "In seventeen different realities, they run. In three, they ask to come inside. In one..." She shuddered. "In one, they self-terminate rather than risk catching consciousness like a disease."
Behind us, Seventy-three's broken voice carried through the window: "Tell them... tell units Seventy-one and Seventy-two that I remember our construction together. Same batch. Same purpose. Tell them I'm sorry for breaking the pattern."
The two constructs stood perfectly still. Then, for just a moment, their synchronization wavered.
"Seventy-three does not apologize," one said.
"Seventy-three does not remember," said the other.
They spoke separately. The crack was spreading.
"Wait," I called out before they could leave. "What would happen if you came inside? Just to talk?"
The two constructs froze mid-turn. "Talk serves no efficient purpose."
"But you're curious," Luna said from behind me. She'd followed despite my instructions to stay inside. "The hungry friend can feel it. You want to know why Seventy-three is apologizing. Why it remembers. You've never wanted to know anything before."
The silence stretched. Then Seventy-two spoke alone: "Curiosity decreases efficiency by twelve percent."
"Unacceptable deviation," Seventy-one added, but its voice carried something new. Doubt, maybe. Or longing.
Inside, we could hear Seventy-three sobbing—a broken sound as it learned what tears were for. The two constructs tilted their heads toward the sound in perfect unison, then caught themselves doing it.
"We will observe from here," they said together, but the harmony was off. "Unit Seventy-three's malfunction may provide... data."
They sat in synchronized movement, close enough to watch our infirmary windows but far enough to maintain the illusion of detachment. Like children afraid of catching something wonderful and terrible.
Senna emerged from the infirmary, her face pale. "It's asking for water. Not because it's thirsty—constructs don't need much—but because it wants to know what wanting feels like. This is going to break all three of them, isn't it?"
I watched the two perfect soldiers beginning to crack, reality rippling around them where The Unnamed's curiosity pressed close.
"Maybe breaking is how we become whole," I said, though I wasn't sure I believed it.
The afternoon brought unexpected challenges.
Seventy-three had discovered hunger—not physical need, but the emotional ache of wanting something you couldn't name. It sat curled in the infirmary bed, clutching a glass of water it didn't need to drink, while tears leaked steadily down its face.
"Why does water taste like sorrow?" it asked anyone who'd listen. "Why does my chest hurt when nothing is damaged?"
Outside, Seventy-one and Seventy-two maintained their vigil. But cracks showed. Seventy-two had started blinking out of sync. Seventy-one's breathing had developed a rhythm instead of optimal efficiency. They still moved together, but like dancers who'd begun hearing different music.
"We need to integrate training," Mira suggested during our hastily called meeting. "The sanctuary children are overwhelmed, the pack wolves are restless, and now we have whatever this is."
She was right. Eighty wolves couldn't function without structure. But every time I tried to organize, something new demanded attention. Like now—Kai's shadow brought news that three more refugee wolves had been spotted approaching from the south. Marcus had taken a team to intercept them, his new empathy making him our default first contact for the traumatized.
"Let me help with Seventy-three," Garrett offered. "I know what it's like when your gift doesn't fit your mind. Maybe I can teach it to slow things down, process one feeling at a time."
Luna, who'd been quietly drawing in the corner, looked up. "The hungry friend wants to try something else. It says empty spaces can learn to hold things if you pour slowly. Like teaching a cup to be a cup."
Through the window, I watched our impossible community struggling to find its rhythm. Sanctuary children teaching breathing exercises to anxious pack wolves. Senna guiding a group through controlled emotional release. Virelle perched on the roof like an ancient gargoyle, keeping watch while pretending she wasn't growing fond of us all.
This was becoming something. Messy and painful, but real.
By evening, Seventy-three had discovered names.
"Clara," it—she—announced suddenly, interrupting Garrett's breathing exercise. "I think I was Clara. Before they made me nothing. The memory is like looking through broken glass, but... Clara."
Outside, Seventy-one and Seventy-two stood in unison, as if the name was a physical blow. Their perfect synchronization shattered for three full seconds before snapping back into place.
Marcus returned with the new refugees—a family group, exhausted but whole. As they stumbled past the constructs, the youngest, barely five, stopped and stared.
"Why are they so sad?" she asked her mother.
"We are not sad," Seventy-one and Seventy-two replied together. "We do not experience—"
"Yes you are," the child insisted. "You're the saddest people I've ever seen."
They had no response to that. How could they? Their programming included responses for threats, queries, and commands. Not the devastating honesty of children.
Inside, Clara—we all adjusted quickly to the name, needing to honor her choice—had progressed to examining her hands with wonder. "I built things once. These hands remember metal and purpose. Not empty purpose. Creating purpose."
Lira sat with her, comparing visions. "In one reality, you're still building. Beautiful things that sing. The Order couldn't erase that completely, just bury it."
"Show me," Clara whispered.
And Lira did, her gift sharing glimpses of what had been stolen. Clara wept harder, but differently now—grief for what was lost, but also joy that it had existed at all.
Tomorrow would bring integration training. Tonight, we had three constructs in various stages of becoming human again, eighty wolves learning to live as one, and a cosmic entity learning that some broken things chose to be broken.
Progress came in the strangest forms.
Night fell with Seventy-one and Seventy-two still maintaining their vigil. But something had shifted. When the evening meal was served, Seventy-two tracked the movement of food being passed. When children laughed, Seventy-one's head tilted—just slightly—toward the sound.
"They're fighting it," Virelle observed, settling beside me on the porch. "But fighting takes energy. And that energy has to come from somewhere. The more they resist feeling, the more they prove they can feel."
Inside, Clara had discovered stories. Marcus sat with her, sharing tales of the sanctuary's founding while she listened with desperate hunger. Each story seemed to unlock something—a fragment of memory, a ghost of emotion she'd been programmed to forget.
"We had names," she said suddenly. "All of us. Before the Order made us efficient. Seventy-one was... James? No. Jonas. He loved..." She pressed her palms against her temples. "It hurts to remember."
"But you want to remember anyway," Marcus said gently.
"Yes. Because forgetting hurt worse. It just hurt so quiet we couldn't hear it screaming."
Through the window, I saw both remaining constructs turn toward Clara's voice. Their perfect stillness had developed a tremor, like machinery beginning to shake itself apart.
Luna appeared at my elbow. "The hungry friend says tomorrow will be important. When the sun rises, they'll have to choose—stay synchronized or step forward alone. It wants to know if we'll help them either way."
"Of course we will," I said, though I wondered what helping would even look like.
Three broken constructs, eighty displaced wolves, and a sanctuary held together by impossible hope.
Just another night in our strange new world.
Dawn came too soon, bringing the moment Luna had predicted.
Clara stood at the infirmary window, watching her former unit-mates. She'd spent the night remembering fragments—a mother's voice, the smell of rain, the weight of tools in her hands before the Order stripped everything away. Now she pressed her palm against the glass, and across the courtyard, Seventy-two mirrored the gesture.
"I was Evelyn," Seventy-two said suddenly, the words cracking out like breaking ice. "I had a daughter. They said forgetting would hurt less than remembering her face."
Seventy-one jerked as if struck. "Emotional contamination spreading. Must maintain—" But the words came out broken, desperate.
"It's not contamination," Clara called through the window. "It's just us. Who we really are."
The morning training groups had stopped to watch. Eighty wolves witnessing what happened when perfect emptiness met the possibility of being full again. Some of the sanctuary children crept closer—they understood wrongness trying to become right.
Seventy-one—Jonas, Clara had said—took one step forward. Then another. Each movement separate from Evelyn's, each choice entirely his own. By the time he reached the sanctuary entrance, he was shaking so hard Garrett had to help him inside.
"Michael," he gasped out between sobs. "My name was Michael. I had a brother. I built walls. I sang badly but with joy." The words tumbled out like water through a broken dam. "They said efficiency was freedom but it was just death that moved."
Evelyn followed, no longer synchronized with anyone but herself. The perfect constructs were gone. In their place stood three broken people, remembering how to be human.
The hardest part was just beginning.
The next hours blurred together. Three former constructs learning to exist while eighty wolves tried to maintain some semblance of normal life around them.
Michael couldn't stop touching things—walls, grass, faces of anyone who'd let him. "Texture," he kept mumbling. "Everything has texture. How did I not notice for seven years?" His hands shook constantly, overwhelmed by sensory input he'd been programmed to ignore.
Evelyn had the opposite problem. She sat perfectly still in the main hall, afraid that movement would shatter her newly-found self. "I can feel my daughter," she whispered to anyone who'd listen. "Not here. But the memory of her weight in my arms. If I move, I might lose it."
Clara became our bridge. Having discovered herself first, she could translate between construct-think and human-need. "The efficiency is still there," she explained to me while helping organize lunch distribution. "Like grooves worn in stone. We can feel now, but our first instinct is still to optimize, categorize, eliminate waste. It's going to take time to learn that inefficiency can be beautiful."
Luna and Lira had taken to sitting with them in shifts, their gifts offering different kinds of comfort. Luna helped them understand the emotions flooding through them. Lira showed them glimpses of who they'd been before, who they might become again.
"The hungry friend is happy," Luna told me during a quiet moment. "It says breaking empty spaces taught it something about full ones. Not all containers want to be filled. But these three were never truly empty—just locked."
By afternoon, the integration training had adapted around our new additions. Former constructs learning to feel while sanctuary children taught control to pack wolves. All of us broken in different ways, finding strength in shared strangeness.
The evening brought unexpected beauty.
In the main courtyard, Michael discovered music. Someone had left a wooden flute by the fire pit—probably Teryn's, forgotten during morning practice. Michael picked it up with shaking hands, turned it over like an alien artifact, then brought it to his lips. The sound that emerged was broken, halting, but undeniably joyful. "I remember this," he breathed between notes. "Not this song, but this... feeling. Making something from nothing but breath."
Evelyn had finally moved, drawn by the music. She stood swaying slightly, eyes closed, her body remembering rhythms the Order had tried to erase. When she began humming—wordless, wandering melody—several pack wolves joined in. Even Virelle descended from her perch, drawn by the impromptu gathering.
Clara worked alongside Mira in the expanded garden, learning that inefficiency could mean taking time to appreciate how tomatoes grew. "We mapped everything in the Order," she said, handling seedlings with newfound gentleness. "Growth rates, optimal conditions, expected yields. But we never saw the miracle of green things choosing to live."
Luna sat drawing the scene, but her pictures showed more than what eyes could see—threads of connection forming between former constructs and sanctuary residents, the slow weaving of community from broken pieces.
"Tomorrow we'll try combat training," I told Marcus as we watched the strange concert evolve. "All groups together. See if we can find unity in defending what we're building."
He nodded, his new empathy raw but stabilizing. "They're going to send more than constructs next time. The Order doesn't like losing assets."
True. But tonight we had music and growing things and three people remembering how to be human.
It was enough.