$25.00
In the dusk-lit corridor of the **Spiring Array**, the reels of *“Its Offered”* unwind into a shimmering hiss that seems to record itself backwards. The sound bends, recites the word *nociception* like a prayer, like a cough translated from an insect’s dream.
T—who might be a researcher, or merely a listening device—sits beside the rotating tape, uncertain if the trembling legs of crushed flies are mourning, or just executing subroutines. Older data said *no pain*, newer whispers said *maybe learning*. T can’t tell the difference anymore between evidence and echo.
On the console, a graph begins to draw itself in dim phosphor green:
```
Depth of Inner Space
+----------------------------------------------------+
| |
| * |
| * * |
| * * |
| * * |
| * * |
|* * the line never |
| * returns to |
| * baseline |
+----------------------------------------------------+
0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
Perception → → → → → → → → Adaptation
```
The line trembles with each tick of the reel, descending as though inner space has measurable strata.
From the ducts above, **mechanical insects** flutter down, their wings printed with phrases in fading ink: *“sensation as simulation,”* *“memory as exoskeleton,”* *“pain as possible geometry.”* One lands on T’s ear and hums a lullaby from an extinct language of circuits.
The tape warps slightly. The sound becomes a spiral. Inside the hiss, T thinks they can hear **low voices from rocks**, discussing the ethics of light, of survival, of whether perception itself hurts.
“**It’s offered,**” they say again, “**but not received.**”
The graph flickers, then vanishes—absorbed into a deeper line, invisible, measuring nothing that follows.
Numbered Edition of 1.