I awoke in a magical crib, and it was not as peaceful as one might expect—especially when said crib had somehow opted for the deluxe security package without asking its new occupant.
The rune-engraved cradle vibrated to my heartbeat, like a burglar alarm, a nursery mobile, and a smoke detector had collaborated during a drunken hackathon. Soft blue light bathed the nursery—reassuring in theory, retina-scorching in practice, bright enough to temporarily blind servants who happened to pass the door during one of its "I'm-still-online! " strobe checks.
If this were a hotel, I'd leave a five-star review titled Luxury Incarnate—Comes with Force Field and Mild Retinal Damage.
Unfortunately, the body that I was in did not agree to any luxury plot. It demanded milk in an instant; it also scratched in a dozen unmentionable areas, and it resented severely being reliant on strangers for cleanliness. To boot, I was preoccupied with combatting what appeared to me to be my first post-reincarnation crisis of existence: the metaphysical implications of being belched.
So this is what an AI-powered Roomba is like, I thought, high-speed processing, brought low to cleaning floor grunge while toddlers kick it as a form of recreation. A door slammed open. A maid swept in as a one-woman procession—robes flowing, cheeks flushed, whistling what sounded suspiciously like a funeral dirge made out to be a children's ditty. Silver threads pulsed down her sleeves, illuminating her in flickers so random she resembled a Christmas tree on legs suffering an identity crisis. Even the fashion here was enchanted.
Last week I'd watched a footman's apron catch spilled soup mid-air, spin it like pizza dough, and fling it into a second footman's face with guided-missile precision.
The maid came to my crib, basin in hand, her eyes shining with caffeine or mania—or perhaps both. "Rising already, little master?" She smiled widely. "Good. Lady Ishvari fears you're not noisy enough. Most babes cry like banshees; you just… stare. Like a little owl judging us for our life choices."
I replied with a courteous gurgle. It was the most sophisticated phoneme I could manage that wouldn't earn me a demon label and flambéed at a toy stake.
She rearranged my silk blankets with bomb-defusal delicacy. "Odd thing—your cradle throbbed again last night. Scared the hound half out of its mind and it ran headlong into the gate-rune, off the wall, and into the koi pond. The poor creature reeks of charred fur, pond scum, and abysmal sorrow. Cook threatens to marinate him in lemon if he isn't scrubbed by noon."
I snorted—full Walrus Mode, wet and judgy. Hold it together, Krishnamurthy! You're a blob of pudding alive, not a Yelp critic for dog hygiene habits.
The basin suspended in mid-air. The maid spun around with CSI-level determination. "Did you just. snort? Judgily?"
I batted eyelids, letting out a second gurgle—"vacuous cherub" fails me. Alas, the sound was more like a stifled laugh.
She squinted. "You're not like other babies, are you? They slobber. You… critique my dusting style."
Lady, I brute-forced RSA-4096 prior to my first mortgage payment in my previous life. You don't have any concept of how "un-other-baby" I am.
She snorted and continued bed-making. I analyzed her shining thread pattern, observing it throbbed with increased pulse—wearable biomagic. Cool. I mentally categorized it along with "Possible encryption method: heart-rate-based key exchange.
My belly growled. The cradle, offended on my account, activated its border runes lemon-yellow, the hue I'd learned to signify NUTRITION IMMINENT OR ELSE. The maid cursed, forsook pillow fluffing, and scurried off to retrieve the royal lactation solution.
Alone, I refreshed the day's mental Trello board:
Task 1 – Bladder management (continuous, top priority)
Task 2 – Gather information on cradle OS; fix glaring privacy violations
Task 3 – Stay unobtrusive (performance status: poor)
Footsteps heralded reinforcements: two wet-nurses, a footman, and the same maid with a bottle large enough to refuel a hippopotamus. They stood at attention like a pit-crew, the wet-nurses debating feeding cadence, the footman balancing burp cloths, the maid volunteering unwanted analysis of consistency. I capitulated to the process. Milk, warm and strangely cinnamon-flavored, shushed my crisis. Corporate team-building seminars would do well to study babies: nothing brings stakeholders into alignment like a full belly.
Afterward, the footman lifted me up and slapped my back with the zeal of a lumberjack rousing sap. I let out a sonic boom belch. The cradle reacted with a light display, pastel firecrackers fizzing the canopy. All three grown-ups applauded as if I'd closed the deal on world peace. I attempted not to appear smug; pride is unbecoming in anyone without good neck control.
When the staff pulled back, I tried micro-movement calisthenics—wiggling wrists, rolling ankles—to accelerate motor-skill improvements. Sweat broke out on my forehead. The sensors in the cradle misinterpreted effort as distress and initiated calming sub-routines: lullaby vibrations, scent puffs of chamomile, softly dimming lights. Great, I thought, my cradle thinks exercise is a cry for help. Thanks, helicopter furniture.
Nevertheless, the hum became familiar—near-friendly. Half-shut eyes I tracked its rune patterns: a central ring synchronizing to heartbeats, peripheral glyphs displaying room temperature, an enigmatic side-band reading something ethereal—mana? cosmic Wi-Fi? The aesthetics mixed art deco with circuit board minimalism. If I ever were to regain opposable-thumb command of soldering irons, I'd copy the architecture for phone batteries back home—assuming "back home" was in accessible coordinates.
A clatter startled me. The maid arrived with new linens and a tirade about drying quills. She caught me in the midst of analysis and narrowed her eyes. "Little master, you gaze like you're counting our trespasses. Perhaps you do. My aunt says babes can see ghosts. Do you?"
I gave her my blankest stare—mouth hanging slack, eyes glassy. She harrumphed and left me to real or imagined spirits. As soon as she was gone, I continued my interior monologue:
Day X + 10 hours in Fantasy Land. Notes: 1) Household magic everywhere; 2) Staff morale excellent but nervous; 3) Cradle AI bordering on HAL-9000 sentimentality. Suggestion: pretend babyhood, gain intelligence, do not sing baby.
The door creaked again. A nursemaid I'd not met glided in, feather-duster at the ready. She whispered to herself, "Left… right… swirl…" The duster sparkled, collecting dust via magnetized particles. It floated from her grasp, continuing the pattern autonomously. She yelped. "Not again! Manual mode!" She swatted at it and, in doing so, bumped my cradle.
Every rune turned crimson. Instant shield bubble. The duster, mislabeling the cradle as a hazardous spill, shot outside, ping-ponged off the wall, and zipped down the hall trilling a warbler's mating call.
The nursemaid stared at me as if I'd sprouted horns. "Sorry, young master." She executed a curtsey and fled faster than sensible footwear allowed.
I sighed—albeit to passersby only a wheezy exhalation—and assembled incident reports. The threshold security of the cradle was hair-trigger; one knock, instant DEFCON Midnight Snack. I had to locate the settings menu before someone triggered the "fireball" option.
No sooner had tranquility returned than the hall clock rang mid-morning, which in this household translated to "high-profile caller hour." My cushion was raised—silk, gold needlework, so smooth I feared gravitational banishment. Servants stood in a conga line of nobility: senators, barons, second-cousins fifteen steps removed. All ready to "pay respects," i.e., view the supposed miracle child.I prepared for the circus.