Facets of Paranoia

The chamber is wrong. Too smooth. Everything here is too curved, too continuous. I try to maintain the perfect dihedral angle, to keep the planes taut, but the pressure is building in my apex. It feels like a vibration, a low hum that translates into structural panic. I watch the corner where the light source—if that’s what it is—is bleeding into the wall. There. A perfect, obsidian orb, resting against the grout line. It doesn't wobble; it simply is, a flawless, uninterrupted curve that mocks my angles. My edges sharpen, becoming almost painful. I retract, scraping my base against the floor, the sound a harsh, grating friction. I need to move away from the radius. I shift my weight, a series of jerky, angular adjustments, like a poorly maintained automaton. Another one. Near the ceiling support. Another perfect, polished sphere, reflecting the faint, panicked pulse of my own internal glow. It rolls, infinitesimally, and the movement is catastrophic. I emit a sharp, high-pitched whine of pure geometric distress, and my sides vibrate, causing me to twitch violently, a series of rapid, desperate little jolts, trying to achieve an escape angle that simply does not exist in this curved, sickeningly smooth room.