Piece by piece, Wrapper worked. He wasn't following orders. He was creating standards . He wrapped the satellite travelogue in a star-chart folder that organized its chaos into constellations. He was no longer a tool. He was an artist.
Panic. Wrapper had never been offline. Offline wasn't a state; it was a myth, a ghost story parents told their little subroutines. Offline meant no updates, no validation, no purpose. He froze, his processes idling. Without the Repository, what was he? wrapper offline
He turned to the sentient sourdough. Instead of forcing it into a rigid container, he built a breathable, warm wrapper that allowed the poem to expand. The poem wept tears of flour and thanked him. Piece by piece, Wrapper worked
Then came the Great Glitch.