# Chapter 7: Processing Power

The service corridors gradually transitioned from dimly lit maintenance passages to more frequently used utility tunnels. The ambient sounds shifted from distant drips and their own echoes to the rumble of trains and the hum of electrical systems. A rhythmic vibration through the concrete signaled they were approaching active subway lines.

"We're nearly there," Dr. Weiss announced, her voice slightly hoarse from their sprint. The sphere in her arms had settled into a lower frequency hum, almost a purr, that felt strangely comforting in the confined space. "The next junction should connect to a service entrance at Westfield Station."

"Westfield?" Aisha questioned. "That's one of the busiest stations in the city. Won't we be... conspicuous?" She gestured to their disheveled appearances and the glowing geodesic sphere.

"Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain sight," Dr. Weiss replied with the confidence of someone who had evaded reality police before. "The system has difficulty tracking individual entities in densely populated areas—too many variables to process simultaneously."

Max found himself nodding. "Like running a graphics-heavy game in a crowded scene—the processor has to make rendering compromises."

"Precisely," Dr. Weiss confirmed with the hint of a smile. "The station will be at peak commuter traffic now. We'll blend in long enough to make our exit."

They reached a heavy metal door marked "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY" with a keypad lock that had been bypassed at some point—wires dangled from an exposed panel, and the locking mechanism had been permanently disengaged.

Dr. Weiss paused before opening it. "Once we're in the station, act natural. Move with purpose but don't run. The proxies are programmed to identify aberrant behavior patterns."

"What about that?" Max nodded toward the humming sphere.

Dr. Weiss considered this, then removed her worn canvas messenger bag and carefully nestled the device inside. The bag bulged oddly, but at least the soft glow was mostly concealed.

"It'll have to do," she decided. "Ready?"

Aisha and Max exchanged glances, then nodded. With a deep breath, Dr. Weiss pushed open the door.

They emerged into a small maintenance room stacked with cleaning supplies and equipment. Another door led them into a tiled corridor that connected to the main concourse of Westfield Station. The sudden transition from abandoned tunnels to the pulsing heart of city transit was jarring—bright fluorescent lighting, digital displays, advertisement screens, and most strikingly, people. Hundreds of people moving in the choreographed chaos of commuter traffic.

Max felt suddenly exposed, as if a spotlight had been trained on them. But no heads turned their way; no alarms sounded. They were just three more faces in the crowd.

"Keep moving," Dr. Weiss murmured, adjusting her grip on the bag containing the sphere. "North exit leads to Hillcrest District."

They joined the flow of pedestrians, moving with the current toward the station's north end. Max found himself studying the faces around them with new suspicion. How many were actual people? How many were proxies or other system constructs? The woman checking her phone—was she processing messages or processing data about her surroundings? The businessman staring blankly ahead—was his mind elsewhere or did he simply have no mind at all?

"Stop that," Aisha hissed, nudging him. "You look like you're casing the place."

Max forced himself to relax his scrutiny, though he couldn't help noticing strange micro-glitches as they moved through the station: A digital advertisement that flickered to show raw code for a split second. A commuter whose hand momentarily phased through the handle of his briefcase. A clock that displayed 8:61 before correcting to 9:01.

"The sphere is still active," he whispered to Dr. Weiss. "I'm seeing anomalies everywhere."

"As am I," she confirmed quietly. "The algorithm continues to highlight rendering errors. Fascinating that they're so prevalent in high-traffic areas—"

"Scientific observations later, escape now," Aisha interjected, nodding subtly toward a pair of security guards standing near the exit. Unlike the other commuters, these two were perfectly still, their eyes methodically scanning the crowd in synchronized sweeps.

"Don't look directly at them," Dr. Weiss warned. "Peripheral awareness only. We'll divert to the east exit instead."

They changed course smoothly, merging with a different stream of commuters. As they passed a row of vending machines, one suddenly displayed a cascade of green symbols before returning to its normal colorful advertisement for energy drinks. A woman standing nearby frowned at the machine, shook her head slightly, and continued on her way.

"Did she see that?" Max wondered aloud.

"Likely registered as a routine malfunction," Dr. Weiss explained. "The mind contextualizes anomalies within its existing framework of understanding. Most people experience dozens of glitches daily without recognizing them for what they are."

They reached the east exit without incident and emerged into the morning bustle of downtown. The sky was overcast, the air carrying the metallic scent of approaching rain. Dr. Weiss led them confidently through a series of side streets, occasionally checking over her shoulder but never breaking stride.

"Where exactly are we going?" Aisha finally asked after they'd walked for nearly fifteen minutes.

"My secondary research facility," Dr. Weiss replied. "Less sophisticated than the primary lab, but adequately equipped for our immediate needs. And much less likely to be compromised."

"Another secret underground lair?" Max quipped, trying to mask his exhaustion with humor.

Dr. Weiss's mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. "Not quite so dramatic, I'm afraid. But secure enough for our purposes."

They turned down an access road that ran behind a strip of commercial buildings—a laundromat, a discount furniture store, a cellular repair shop, and finally, a self-storage facility with rows of identical orange roll-up doors. Dr. Weiss approached the keypad at the entrance gate, punched in a code, and ushered them through when the gate rolled open with a mechanical groan.

"A storage unit?" Aisha sounded unimpressed.

"Never underestimate the mundane as camouflage," Dr. Weiss replied. "The Admins are drawn to the exceptional—breakthrough technologies, revolutionary ideas, significant anomalies. They largely ignore the ordinary."

They wound through the maze of storage buildings until they reached a unit marked E-14. Dr. Weiss produced a key from her pocket and unlocked the padlock securing the roll-up door.

"Welcome to what I affectionately call 'the Archive,'" she announced, lifting the door to reveal the interior.

Max and Aisha stepped inside, and their skepticism immediately gave way to amazement. What appeared from the outside to be a standard 10x20 storage unit had been transformed into a compact but comprehensive research station. One wall was lined with outdated but serviceable computer equipment—monitors displaying scrolling data, servers humming industriously, and a collection of custom-built devices whose purposes weren't immediately obvious. Another wall was covered in what could only be described as the physical manifestation of a conspiracy theorist's mind—maps, photographs, news clippings, and handwritten notes connected by a web of colored strings.

The center of the unit held a workbench cluttered with tools, components, and half-assembled devices. Shelves stacked with labeled boxes rose nearly to the ceiling, and a small refrigerator hummed in one corner next to a microwave and electric kettle atop a filing cabinet.

"You've been busy," Max observed, taking it all in.

"Twenty-three years of research doesn't fit in a standard filing cabinet," Dr. Weiss replied, closing the door behind them. She carefully removed the sphere from her bag and placed it on a specially designed stand in the center of the workbench. "Nor does it receive standard research funding, hence the... economical accommodations."

The sphere seemed to pulse slightly as it settled into the stand, its components shifting in subtle realignment as if responding to its new environment.

"It's stabilizing," Dr. Weiss noted with obvious interest. "The algorithm appears to be processing the data it collected during our expedition."

Aisha had wandered over to the conspiracy wall and was examining it with growing concern. "Are these all... glitches you've documented?"

"Anomalies, yes," Dr. Weiss confirmed, joining her. "Each pin represents a documented instance of reality failure—physics irregularities, rendering errors, logical inconsistencies. The strings connect related phenomena."

"There are hundreds of pins," Aisha observed.

"Seven hundred and forty-two, to be precise," Dr. Weiss replied. "And those are only the ones I've personally verified. There are thousands more reported by other observers."

Max approached the wall as well, his attention caught by a news clipping about a commercial airplane that had reportedly disappeared from radar for exactly 3.14 seconds before reappearing at precisely the same coordinates and velocity.

"How many of these incidents do the Admins suppress?" he asked.

"Most of them," Dr. Weiss said grimly. "Major anomalies trigger immediate response and memory modification protocols. The events are recontextualized as equipment malfunctions, human error, or in extreme cases, completely erased from collective memory."

"But you remember them," Aisha noted.

Dr. Weiss tapped her temple. "Some minds are more... resistant to modification than others. A natural immunity, if you will. I suspect you both share this trait to some degree, given your receptiveness to the truth."

Max turned his attention back to the sphere, which had settled into a steady pulsation. "So what now? We've proven the simulation exists, we've seen the glitches, we've met the system's security forces. Where does that leave us?"

Dr. Weiss approached the workbench and began connecting monitoring equipment to the sphere's stand. "Now we analyze what we've learned and determine our next steps. Your algorithm has evolved beyond my initial projections, Mr. Davidson. It's not merely identifying anomalies anymore—it's actively interacting with the simulation's architecture."

She activated a scanner that projected a holographic display above the sphere, showing complex data patterns that shifted in sync with the device's pulsations.

"Fascinating," she murmured. "The algorithm has developed a mapping function. It's creating a real-time topography of the simulation's processing density."

"Processing density?" Aisha questioned, peering at the holographic display.

"The computational resources allocated to rendering different aspects of reality," Dr. Weiss explained. "Not unlike how a video game might render the player's immediate surroundings in high definition while using lower resolution for distant objects."

Max studied the shifting patterns with growing excitement. "So this is showing us where the simulation is working hardest? Or... least efficiently?"

"Both, in a sense," Dr. Weiss confirmed. "These peaks—" she pointed to bright nodes in the holographic display "—represent areas of maximum processing demand. And these valleys—" she indicated darker regions "—show where resources are more sparsely allocated."

Aisha frowned. "Why would the simulation allocate resources unevenly? Wouldn't that increase the risk of glitches?"

"An excellent question," Dr. Weiss said with obvious approval. "The most logical explanation is that the simulation simply cannot maintain uniform fidelity across all aspects of reality simultaneously. It must prioritize."

"Like rendering faces in higher detail than landscapes in a game," Max suggested. "Because that's where players focus their attention."

"Precisely," Dr. Weiss agreed. "And what's particularly interesting is what the simulation prioritizes."

She adjusted the holographic display, zooming out to show a broader pattern. The image resolved into what was recognizably a map of their city, with bright spots of varying intensity scattered throughout.

"These concentrations correspond to locations where significant human interaction or experience occurs," she explained. "Hospitals where lives begin and end. Theaters where emotions run high. Public squares where protests form. Private homes where families share profound connections."

Max leaned closer, mesmerized by the implications. "It's allocating more processing power to render human experiences accurately? Why?"

"Perhaps because that's the purpose of the simulation," Dr. Weiss suggested. "Or perhaps because consciousness itself requires greater computational resources to render convincingly."

As they studied the map, Max noticed something unexpected. "Wait, some of these 'thin spots' you mentioned—the areas with minimal processing allocation—they're right next to the high-intensity zones. Like they're... connected somehow."

Dr. Weiss nodded eagerly. "Yes! I've observed this pattern repeatedly. Areas of intense emotional or intellectual activity seem to create adjacent zones of computational depletion—as if the simulation must divert resources from nearby regions to render the high-intensity experience properly."

"Like overclocking one CPU core at the expense of others," Max said, professional interest momentarily overriding existential dread.

"A crude but effective analogy," Dr. Weiss agreed. "And these depleted zones—these 'thin spots' in reality—are where anomalies occur most frequently. Where the illusion is most likely to break down."

Aisha, who had been quietly processing this information, suddenly looked up with a startled expression. "Wait. Are you saying that genuine human connection... strains the simulation?"

"The evidence suggests exactly that," Dr. Weiss confirmed. "The most computationally demanding aspects of our reality appear to be authentic emotional experiences, creative breakthroughs, and moments of profound realization."

Max felt a chill run down his spine as the implications sank in. "So when people fall in love, or create art, or have scientific epiphanies..."

"They're pushing the simulation to its limits," Dr. Weiss finished for him. "And occasionally, beyond them."

The sphere's humming suddenly intensified, its components reconfiguring more dramatically than before. The holographic display flickered, then expanded, the map of the city growing more detailed as new data points appeared.

"It's refining its analysis," Dr. Weiss observed, her eyes wide with excitement. "Cross-referencing historical anomaly data with current processing distribution patterns."

The map continued to evolve, now showing not just the bright spots of high processing demand but also connecting lines between them—a complex network of computational relationships that pulsed and shifted like a living organism.

"It's beautiful," Aisha whispered, momentarily forgetting their precarious situation.

"It's more than that," Max said, studying the pattern with growing understanding. "It's a vulnerability map. Each of these thin spots is a potential exploitation point—a place where the simulation's defenses are weakest."

Dr. Weiss nodded slowly, her expression both triumphant and cautious. "Yes. What you're looking at may well be a map of potential breach locations—points where the boundary between our reality and whatever lies beyond might be most permeable."

"You mean... escape routes?" Aisha asked, her voice dropping to a near-whisper.

"Theoretically," Dr. Weiss confirmed. "Though 'escape' may be an oversimplification. 'Transcendence points' might be more accurate—locations where the normal rules of the simulation could potentially be suspended or overwritten."

Max studied the map more carefully now, noting that several of the most promising "thin spots" corresponded to locations he recognized: the old observatory on the hill outside town; the century-old theater downtown; the university's quantum research lab; and surprisingly, a small coffee shop where local musicians performed on weekends.

"So what's the plan?" he asked, looking up at Dr. Weiss. "Do we just... go to one of these places and try to walk through the wall?"

Dr. Weiss smiled thinly. "If only it were that simple. No, accessing these vulnerabilities would require a precisely calibrated disruption—a targeted version of what we accidentally achieved in the lab."

She gestured to the sphere. "This device has evolved into something I never anticipated—a tool that can potentially identify and exploit weaknesses in the simulation's architecture. But using it effectively will require further refinement."

"And time," Aisha added pragmatically. "Which we may not have much of if those Admin things are still after us."

"Indeed," Dr. Weiss acknowledged. "Our immediate priority must be to—"

The sphere suddenly pulsed more intensely, the holographic display flickering before resolving into a much more detailed map. Dozens of new points appeared—potential breach locations they hadn't noticed before—each glowing with varying intensity.

"My god," Dr. Weiss breathed. "There are far more vulnerability points than I ever suspected."

Max was about to respond when a sound froze him in place—three sharp, perfectly spaced knocks on the storage unit's roll-up door. Then three more, identical in rhythm and intensity.

They exchanged alarmed glances, no one daring to speak. The knocking pattern repeated once more—three precisely timed impacts, unnaturally uniform in their execution.