what do you think you would do if you couldn't think at all?
In his first memories, he knew nothing, and that was all.
He looked around. There were walls.
He looked again. There was a computer.
He looked once more. There was a shadow in the shadows. It left. He forgot it.
He turned to the computer. It was old-fashioned, not that he knew, but he somehow turned it on and somehow logged on and somehow did something that let him see a something. He wouldn't call it a human, but that was what it was. He studied the human, studied his hands—why did he look so much like this thing?
And then, without him realising, the world he was watching outside went dark and his legs—was that what they were?—took him out of the room, down many corridors, and into another room with more computers. He walked to one of them, second row, third one along, unplugged it, took it back to the room. There, he rewired it, right next to the first computer, and logged on with the password and username he didn't know, and watched the things outside that looked so much like himself.
And then, it was dark again before he knew and his legs took him out of the room, down many corridors, and into the other room with more computers. The one he had taken before had been replaced. He walked to the third row and unplugged the first computer, taking it back to his room. There, he rewired it, a little to the right of the second computer, a little above the first, his hands on autopilot, his mind there but not there at the same time. And he sat on a chair that he hadn't noticed was there before, logged in with the password and username that were so close to being within his reach and yet so far away and watched the things outside his world that looked so much like him.
He couldn't tell how long he spent in that room, or outside of that room, collecting computers with instructions he couldn't remember, watching the things outside. Often, he questioned why he was there, but his instructions remained out of reach, so he focused on simply existing.
One day—or was it night?—his eyes happened to glance at the door of his room. Computer Room 2. His mind didn't let him make the connection between the name of the room and the object he was carrying, but he didn't care at this point. He was perfectly content with looking at the things outside his world, and that was enough.
What he didn't notice was that at this point, his room contained one thousand and ninety-five computers.
In normal time, he had existed for three years.
He still didn't know why.
And then, on his computers, he saw something strange.
After he had been typing for a little while—what, he had no clue—one of the things that looked like him flickered, glowed, then darkened and became a shadow. Was that what his typing had done? He thought so. It was strange to see the consequences of something he had done.
Later—not that he knew how much time had passed—one of the things that looked like him burst into his room. It talked, he talked back, but he didn't know what he said. It had hair that he didn't know was pink, uniform with blue and white and gold and other things he couldn't name and other things he wanted to name but still couldn't. It fell to the floor with a liquid he didn't know was a liquid rolling in flat drops down its cheeks. What was it doing? What was he doing? His computers that he didn't know were computers flickered and a shape was shown, but his brain wouldn't tell him what it was, wouldn't tell him what he was feeling, wouldn't tell him anything at all and suddenly he felt like joining the thing on the floor of his room that was his world.
Then the thing stood again and lifted the two things that he hadn't noticed had been in its hands this whole time—why hadn't he noticed?— and it pointed them at his computers, all four thousand, eight hundred and ninety six of them, and did something, and they smashed. They fell from the walls and smashed more. The thing turned and did it again. He wanted to shout. Why did he want to shout? Were his computers important? How could he place value on something when he didn't know what it was?
The thing had pointed whatever it was holding at him. What was it holding?
And there was a bang.
And there was pain.
And there were feelings.
There were feelings and thoughts and words and names and places and people and colours and sounds and scents and there were so many things.
There was something else, too.
He had no name to remember; he was the product of someone else's creation, made so that he could do—he didn't want to think about it. Then he thought about the fact that he didn't have any friends or any family, never had and never would, could never have, and he thought about how he had been brought to consciousness to stop other people from finding these things in this world.
And he thought about how sad he was that there was nothing he could do about that.
He looked at the thing, the human, the girl, Nakamura, Yuri Nakamura, with hair he knew was pink, uniform he knew was blue and white and gold and other things he could name and other things he wanted to name and still could and he felt his face heat up, felt the tears well in his eyes, felt the overwhelming feelings that he had never felt before—
And then he felt nothing, because he had never felt anything before, so why did a monster like him deserve to feel now?
YOU ARE READING
code: move_on.ftb; line 764803; LOVE
FanfictionWhy was he here? He had never known; never been programmed to remember, but it nagged at the corner of his software and at the edges of his code until he was shot through the heart and he remembered, then shot through the head and forgotten. #2 in f...
