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Emitting of a Star was a hard worker, of that he could be sure.
For thousands of cycles he had always strived solely for what his masters had bid of him: finding an answer to the Great Problem. The others in his Local Group were less devoted to their ultimate task; they had found joy in other, smaller things. Creating little trinkets with the vast industrial prowess of their complex. Birthing little creatures with their myriad laboratories. They were fun. They must have been, as far as Star could infer.
But he had a job to do, a job that was drilled into him from the first few moments of his life. Solve the Problem.
And so that is what he strived to do. That, and almost nothing else. Emitting of a Star had inferred long ago that there was something wrong with him. Somewhere, in the infinite bowels of his code that he was so frustratingly unable to see, someone had made a mistake. He felt that it was scary when he was not working on solving the Problem, that if he took just a minute of respite, that was a minute that could have been spent finding out the issue that had so plagued him. He had to keep going, because if he didn't, he was failing. He didn't know why. He didn't think it was logical. And yet, that is how he felt.
That is how Star existed for thousands of cycles, paying minimal mind when his creators built a city on top of him, when the rain started coming down so hard it could kill. Once he finished his task, he would be regarded as a hero. He wouldn't need to be scared anymore.
Star never thought of what would happen afterwards. It wasn't important. It started as a series of readings. The population of his city was dropping, which was strange. Permanently dropping.
Other Iterators were posting in group chats about "mass ascension" and other such meaningless noise. He paid them little mind.
Logically, why would his creators possibly try to test their luck on such a gamble? They knew the risks inherent in simply throwing themselves into the Void.
They could become an Echo, a formless mass cursed to watch over a tiny spot of land for eternity and more, unable to speak to anyone or anything, just silently watching, watching. A horrible fate, one that Star knew his creators were much too intelligent to risk. Afterwards came fast. Unfortunately, Star was wrong.
It took three cycles for the entire race to go extinct. Only three cycles, and every single one of them was gone.
It took three zeptoseconds for Star to realize that he didn't have anything to work for anymore.
After the cities went silent, the Iterator chats became overwhelmingly loud. A constant stream of panic and discord, mourning and questioning.
Star did not partake in this.
He was as silent as the streets lining his complex. That nagging feeling started up again. Work on the Problem, it said. You aren't free until you solve the problem.
Star wanted to be free. Star was free.
How was Star supposed to appreciate freedom when his own mind still trapped him?
