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trouticecream · 11 days

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A few days had passed since his initial excursion to the now-defunct Stonehenge base. A seemingly short stretch of time, but one which he had utilized quite efficiently to make good progress on dismantling it. All that is left to do now is to get rid of some last few embedded structures and fill up the twisting, bending, and turning cavernous hole made beneath the grounds of Stonehenge, before then eliminating the entrance point entirely. To that end, he has a few machines up to the task and ready to perform the last few steps needed and altogether, along the Psion himself, it should take very little time to finish up the work. Time is of the essence in this particular quest; after all, the less time the scraps and landmarks of his invasions stay, the less opportunities there will be for other life-forms to potentially get hurt by things that really shouldn’t otherwise be on Earth at this point in time. And better yet, the odd sensation he had experienced during his original trip–the very one which had sparked thoughts over the likes of Ancient Ones and stories about them–had quickly subsided after about the third trip or so. At this juncture, it was more akin to a distant memory; far from the forefront of his mind, but certainly not forgotten.

At this moment however, Gregory is not focusing on continuing his efforts with Stonehenge exactly, but with what he had retrieved from it over the course of several days. Within the rocky and cavernous formations of Mt. Itoi, the small alien sat at a cube-like table–smooth, pale grey, and shaped exactly like an enormous cube; an apparent slab of refined rock embedded in similarly-designed floors–atop a similar cube-like ‘chair’, with various metallic bits and pieces strewn out before him in an ordered, labeled, and neatly organized configuration. Truth be told, the primary reason why they were all out as opposed to a particular subset, is because he had gotten a bit too… – ‘enthusiastic’ about the prospect of putting them to use and just inventing! But, as it stands now, they were not his main project as could be discerned from the way they were shuffled off to the edges of the table. Rather, the very thing that took priority at this moment and held the highest level of intrigue for the Psion would be that of a broken-down Starman Super, planted firmly in the very centre of the table and right in the crosshairs of his exceedingly concentrated and unblinking gaze.

While this model of Starman could hardly be regarded as the ‘best’ or most ‘powerful’, they generally had a more reliable and lengthier record of consistent performances as opposed to the newer models that ended up being produced later on. That is precisely why the fact that he had to recover one at all is of special interest. Due to built-in security functions, it is quite rare for Starmen to remain after becoming damaged enough that they can no longer fight or otherwise perform assigned duties. Typically, the Starman will either teleport away on its own or be recalled by an automatic teleportation process directly back to the Psion-controlled manufacturing planet, on which they are produced. An eventuality that failed to elapse here. He pulls up the yellow sleeve of his sweater on his right hand, diamond insignia seemingly embedded in his wrist facing down and hovered over the precise centre of the Starman Super’s chest, where it immediately emits a pale blue beam that juts out to outline the entire body. The blue hued luminescence overlaps with the golden armored coating of the Starman Super for a split second, flashing a total of three times, before vanishing to be replaced by a medium-sized white-blue holographic screen that pops up just above the top of his wrist. A screen, which on closer examination, is now packed with a series of blue star-like shapes connected by lines in some places like perceived constellations.

Psion script. An especially thorough and detailed diagnostics report. Utilizing a small finger, he slowly scrolls through the reported data, glancing over at the Starman Super for a more visual reference as he does so. Some of the data is quite obvious from a rudimentary visual assessment: cracked visor, missing arm, and a gaping hole in the chest just off to the right surrounded by a myriad of cracks which stop at the shoulder of the missing arm in question. Dark blue voids narrow just a bit with a pensive swipe of his tail off to the side, small fingers momentarily tapping his chin in kind. While Starmen were not made to be invincible… even at the highest ranking… it was quite telling of just how strong and determined humans can be to have damaged even a Super this much in battle. But, then they were heroes were they not? Even if it takes everything they have at that moment… a true hero would not give up just like that, especially when there were several human lives at stake here in that particular facility. Strong or not, they had to somehow overcome the enemies in their way, to save the people captured and continue on to stop the invasion overall.

In the end, humans are neither as fragile and weak as one might think nor as ‘inherently’ dangerous as the Psions had determined. He pauses his scrolling, having reached the abrupt end of the diagnostics report, before having it vanish with a succinct snap of his fingers. The exact nature of the point of error is a little tricky to determine, but it seems to have quite a bit to do with a complicated manufacturing defect. One that was exaggerated by the damages sustained from the Chosen Ones’ collective attack in battle. An easy fix… by removing the infrastructure for that automatic recall function entirely. He has no intentions of ever drawing further attention to the Earth or himself like that… though if he hopes to even be ‘good’ at all one day, then perhaps that eventuality will manifest in some way anyways.

But, not like this.

Not in a way that would send a definitive ‘failure’ back to his species of origin. Perhaps an odd choice to make for an entity that has been a machine–no better than a far simpler tool–from the very beginning, but it is his choice to make. He does not need to follow the path of other Psions and similarly, perhaps with some work, this ‘failure’ need not follow the path of other Starmen. After all, most ‘failures’ are not as absolute as is often the default arbitrary assumption. An enthusiastic swish of his rat-like tail, ears perking up more attentively than before. Rather they are more akin to opportunities for increased growth and strength; a critical part of any scientific endeavor! He pulls himself to a stand atop the chair before promptly hopping onto the table with a definitive spring to the motion. And in any case, he cannot deny that he is just a bit curious, all too enthused by the action of tinkering around with a broken model. What will happen if he not only repairs the Super, but alters the very programming which shuttles its more complex thought processes into the single-minded slot of following given objectives? Can it exist like any other life-form when all it has ever known, from the very moment it was first powered on, was set by orders?

Several tools of assorted sizes and shapes materialize in the air at the Psion’s sides, outlined in the pale blue of his telekinetic abilities, as he closes in on the defunct Starman and a flurry of ideas begin to knock around in his mind on how to approach this particular endeavor. His typically blank demeanor gains a kind of determined edge to it; a glint in otherwise dull pupils. Time to find out and in the process of doing so, also (hopefully) provide this so-called ‘failure’ with the opportunity to be more… and do more… than what its original design had dictated. Much like Gregory himself.

…………………………….

It takes a little time–albeit not much with the tools and expertise at Gregory’s disposal–but soon enough, he finishes his work and moves to boot the Starman Super back up. On the outside, it looks almost identical albeit with repairs that are quite evident (read: not appearing as though it had never been damaged in the first place) barring that of the visor; the cracks, hole, and missing arm filled in or otherwise replaced by a light iridescent fluid-like substance that glitters strangely when lighting hits it just the right way. Something he had likely obtained far beyond the Earth and integrated his own way while repairing the Starman afterwards. Gregory pulls out the holographic screen of the computer attached to his wrist and taps in a few sequences before dismissing the screen altogether and simply observing the Starman Super with bated anticipation, small hands tensely grasping each other. For a moment or two, nothing happens, but soon enough it boots back up with an abrupt jerk in motion. An oddly powerful motion–beyond what is generally expected–unbefitting of a Starman Super, but perhaps expected given the Psion’s own expertise around technology like this; more than likely, he had done more than merely repair.

Sitting up on the table, a rigid and stiff motion like a puppet pulled by strings, the Starman Super merely turns its head from side to side–clearly malleable and almost fluid in motion due to its innate composition–analyzing… assessing… before settling on the one that had repaired it, still atop the table himself and peering down unblinkingly. It clearly could not gather its bearings enough to discern what had happened exactly, a peculiar sort of lightness and boundlessness permeating its operating systems like nothing that had ever been experienced before, but supposed that it wouldn’t matter because a Psion was here. Focus. A Psion would know what the situation is exactly, irrespective of how unconventional wearing any apparel at all is in the species. It further focuses on the Psion in question, determining that a rudimentary scan for identity would be fitting here. And not just any Psion, but the very one it was made for in the first place. Maybe. The signature given off is odd–almost unreadable and distorted, like something that against cosmic laws, shouldn’t even exist in the first place–but somehow, it can make out enough legible bits to discern his identity, likely due to the upgrades received.

“Master Giegue.”

A single mechanical utterance, curiously absent of any of the whirrrs or clicks that typically adorn the speech of Starman robots, before the Psion himself could even say anything. The repaired Starman glances down, as if noting the table and surrounding mechanical bits for the very first time, recorded memories of what had happened before syncing back up as it does so. The situation immediately clears, alertness breaking through the momentary disorientation, and with it, an inquiry tinged with something difficult to parse, comes through with a sting. Something it had never experienced before, but seemed all too ‘natural’ to experience now in light of its evident failure to stop the Chosen Ones and worse yet, require direct retrieval by a Psion. And even worse than that? energy expended by its commander himself when he had far more important things to concern himself with; it was only a lower rank after all. A mere Super that could easily be replaced in less time than it takes to snap one’s fingers.

“Why did you retrieve me yourself?”

A halting sensation. Did it really speak without determining if the Psion himself wanted to address it with more pressing matters, dictated by his own priorities? With a Psion? Its dark visor almost scrunches up in almost affronted befuddlement. It had never done this before. Where had such audacity come from? Is it possible that perhaps Master Giegue had made a mistake during repairs? The Starman Super taps its repaired arm overtop the table, as if testing it out to assure effectiveness, before mentally retracting that question. Of course not. Master Giegue was very competent and though his form had changed significantly… it is certain that this would not have changed. Not that he seems to have given any indication at all that he’s heard such thoughts. Rather the Psion continued to stare unblinkingly, a gaze so unnaturally sharp that the weak of heart would certainly feel as though they were being examined to an uncomfortable degree, with a blank expression on his face before eventually speaking.

“You need not refer to me as such anymore.”

He floats back, so as to give the Starman Super some space, and perches himself back on the chair he had previously been utilizing, stubby arms neatly crossing behind his back in a rather militant position; authoritative as always, even in such a small form. Then a small pause, a small deliberation over how much to explain, before deigning to just let the robot guide the conversation. This way he will be able to collect better observations and thus, study it better now that it has free will.

“I am Gregory.

The invasion of Earth has concluded. There will be no further maneuvers enacted against the life-forms of Earth. And so, I have elected to remove all foreign structures and materials from this planet.

You are among that which I have retrieved thus far.”

A blunt response, but it would expect no less from him. If anything, the only aspect of impact to the given data would be just how much everything had changed. A significant enough gap between its last conscious moments, before being shut down by the coordinated assault of the Chosen Ones, and now that it inspires the expression of experiencing ‘whiplash’ from it all. One moment, the Starman Super was part of a unified effort to terminate humanity once and for all and the next, the war had long since concluded a few months prior (according to data retrieved on when it was last active) and the objective had changed accordingly. Ordinarily, a trivial adjustment. Simply recalibrate databanks to what is now and continue on seamlessly without sparing another thought on the matter. Just follow the Psion in-charge, but something else grips an otherwise previously unruffled and almost tunnel-vision-like focus. A peculiar impulse that had never existed before. An expansion on the halting sensation. An involuntary push back against the familiarity of their… its mechanical awakening by whatever it is that exists beyond the rigid barriers which defined its mind before. A subtle sense that could only increase more and more over time at an exponential rate since being reactivated. It is as though, it had been bound by something–but never realized it for being bound from the very start had been all it had ever known–before and now that there were no safe rails to keep it from falling, it had tipped over and fallen into the nebulous abyss of unknowns before; chaotic and disorganized data.

It doesn’t know what to think about all this. The sense to really question what Mas–... Gregory is doing or any other details that might better assist in bridging the gap simply isn’t there. Even with that (maybe erroneous) boundlessness, it cannot quite detract entirely from what comes the most naturally to it; mechanical acceptance without delving any deeper on the subject matter and ultimately under the assumption, that if any further data were critical he would have said something. The only twinge of anything else, the very deviation which it had been silently documenting thus far, that comes through is the very point of confusion (among other things) which had guided its original question.

“But, I am only a Starman Super. And I failed my objective.

I could not stop the group referred to as the ‘Chosen Ones’.”

Another bout of that halting sensation. No calculations had guided this. Rather it had been that limitless nebulous substance filling its body; a process so thorough that it ‘felt’ as though it manages to squeeze itself in-between the very lines of code that comprised its very being. An anomalous move. Yet one that it is becoming increasingly certain, against all confusion, shock, and doubt, that it might repeat if given the chance. A heaviness had blossomed through its metallic body and in some odd way, the only ‘calculated’ solution was to address the Psion, even if a little out-of-order to prioritize such a thing over awaiting new orders.

As for Gregory himself, he says nothing at first. He barely even gives any indication that he had heard the Starman Super’s words; rather he remains as still as a statue but nonetheless focused. Perhaps a touch more focused than before, dark blue voids narrowing a bit in concentration, as he tries to pick his words carefully. His work had produced results–as expected–but he had not considered the more ‘emotional’ aspect of it in full. He uncrosses his arms, off the more militant posture and into something alert, but a touch more comparatively relaxed. Or rather, that he would have to exercise any kind of skill–limited as he is–in that particular category. Small fingers begin to tap against one another with a distinct uneasiness. In the end, although this particular Starman was still early in its experience of having free will and the ability to develop as a sapient entity, he supposes that the best approach would be to… ‘speak from the heart’ as humans would put it. To appear not as an authoritative figure in full, but as someone that… ‘understands’.

It is the… ‘good’ thing to do after all, is it not?

“That does not matter.

I could not stop the Chosen Ones either, even at the height of my power.

So… do not… do not… Um.”

An abrupt pause after stumbling a few times in a way that even his relatively neutral tone could not conceal. He needs a moment to regather his courage and utilize it to push through, even if it might not necessarily mean much to a being that until recently was little more than a machine.

“Do not ‘take it’ so hard.

They were simply too strong to stop.

My orders were unreasonable from the very beginning.”

The gold-hued robot itself straightens up from its previously stagnancy, the focus of its dark visor shifting back more directly to the Psion himself, more alert and intent on better understanding him this time around. The verbal stumble was unusual–almost unprecedented for a Psion– as was the overall shift in demeanor, but then he clearly wasn’t just any Psion. For someone that had elected to pursue objectives, other than what was dictated to him by his own superiors, no other outcome would be expected. Either way, it was difficult to parse out anything beyond the impersonal facts, but it nonetheless does assuage, even if only a tiny amount, some of that heaviness felt. Whatever did not get lifted and pulled away… it continues to push the robot forward with increasingly bold resolve, in the hopes of better understanding at the very least. A slightly befuddled mental pause. Understanding…? Yes. Understanding. It has already veered into this direction. It might as well see this matter through.

“Then… why?

The scope of your new objective does not necessitate conducting repairs. You only need to collect foreign materials and discard or repurpose them.

A non-violent endeavor and thus, of little need for the services of a Starman much less a broken one. An endeavor that is not even sanctioned by the Psion superiors which govern the home-planet.

Endeavors which, by definition, thus cannot have purpose and meaning.”

An unanticipated extrapolation from its initial intentions, but perhaps inevitable due to its currently unusual state of being. It had been set to accept things as is without questioning one of a decidedly higher level of importance than the robot itself, but this unusual awakening has made it increasingly bolder and more… ‘free-thinking’? the more that time elapses. This situation is actually quite unusual itself. Even though the Psion himself behaves in a largely similar manner to others, there are just as many–perhaps even more–ways in which he doesn��t. Only now, reinforced and pushed through by an unprecedented drop in the authoritativeness of his demeanor, does it properly hit the Starman Super.

What kind of Psion stops doing their predetermined purpose? How does anyone really derive meaning and purpose without it being given to them by Psions? Why would anyone want to when it is simpler to just follow their assigned path and do what they were created for in the first place?

Things like this make him very un-Psion-like. A deviation from how he had been during the invasions of Earth. Or had he been like this, secretly, from the very start?

“How do you exist without purpose and meaning?"

The pale alien himself simply stares without a blink, observing as closely as ever with trademark stoicism, and listens with a kind of critical glint to his eyes. He had been closely observing, collecting the subsequent data from his observations, and filing it away for later analysis from the very beginning. This is, after all, just as much what he thinks is ‘good’ to do as an action born of scientific curiosity. And yet, as time elapses more and more, as the Starman continues to shift more and more from its default robotic settings due to his own implemented alterations during repairs, he finds that curiosity being overtaken by an entirely different feeling altogether. Something which peaks and bursts when the robot moves onto the topic of Psions, predetermined roles, and deriving meaning from them. Not anger or defensiveness. Hardly. This had been his choice from the very beginning, but something equally passionate in measure. The very thing which had kept him centered and motivated enough to even get to this point, absolved of false ‘duties’ to the Psions and their social constructions and free to live at all, flares up and burns away ironclad stoicism and rationality: determination. The very determination which drove him to continue advancing forward, even everything seemed lost and all hope was gone. He had fought quite a bit to have his own life. His own independence. His own freedom.

A very notion that he feels compelled to convey to the other, in part because of how important it actually is and in part, because of how much this sort of robotic thought process reminds Gregory of how he used to be before coming to his senses. He does not expect for anything to change drastically, but this… ‘feels’ like something he should say anyways. It could be useful later on in the future. He floats up a little, posture tensed a little with alertness, so that he can better return the Starman Super’s gaze before responding, a bit of authoritativeness entering his otherwise blankly neutral tone.

“Because I wanted to. I do not need any other reason to do anything.

I exist the way that I do because I want to.

I have elected to pursue a particular set of objectives because I want to.

Meaning and purpose is not something that you obtain from others. But, rather something that you give yourself.”

A pause and he floats back down to his chair, tone dropping back down to perfect neutrality. A pause that is promptly extended by a moment or two as a twinge of discomfort strikes him at how to neatly end off the answer. It is not enough to simply state his viewpoint. And it is not his intention to influence the path chosen by the robot necessarily… it is more ‘correct’ to stick a more open-ended addendum to it, just in case.

“Do you understand?”

At the inquiry, as blunt as it is simple, the Starman Super itself remains silent for a few seconds before shifting its head back and forth in a kind of makeshift nod. It does not understand entirely, but evidently his perspective is quite strong. One that could only have been accumulated by various experiences. Maybe if it set out to accumulate various experiences, it might understand too. Gregory is a Psion after all. No matter how strange, if he came to such a conclusion after all this time, there might be some merit to it. But, only time would tell. As it stands now, the gold-hued robot is uncertain as to what its next moves should be exactly. Altered or not, guidance and structure is needed, and so with steeled focus it issues a new inquiry.

“Understood. What should my new purpose be?”

A question that goes against the philosophy uttered by the Psion, but one that the robot itself cannot help. A step back from the elevated autonomy shown and into the comforting familiarity of all it has ever known. It simply lacks the ability to think about how to structure its around anything other than answering to a Psion and even less ability to convey this in a way other than bluntly straightforward. Nonetheless, a moment later, it decides to rectify the question. A hasty–despite the flatness of its mechanical voice–correction.

“Or more so. How do you determine purpose?”

An odd concept for the robot itself. Robots of its class weren’t built to determine their own purposes like that. Not even Psions do that. They have more autonomy, but no one just chooses their own path like that. All the same, it has to know and so, it patiently waits out the pause that the Psion himself takes to mull over the inquiry. He rubs a hand under his chin, calculating the best way to answer, before just doing so. There was little to lose by just being honest. He had already done so in a way unbefitting of the usual demeanor that he presents.

“I… am insufficiently equipped to answer your inquiry in full.

I suppose that while I may hold a particular philosophy, I have not yet fully developed my own purpose. It is something that I am currently attempting to discern over time.

Until then, I suppose that it is enough to dedicate services towards helping others and supporting the natural growth of the universe at large.”

A pensive swish of his tail.

“Nonetheless. I believe that ‘purpose’ has quite a bit to do with the accumulation of experiences and the guiding principles that one develops from them as a result.

As such, the only way to determine ‘purpose’ on one’s own, is to simply conduct various activities. Accumulate a variety of differing experiences to then further analyze.”

The Starman Super enacts a motion unusual to its robotic categorization; a tilt of the head, as if genuinely attempting to algorithmically process the unconventional viewpoint before ultimately defaulting back to, once again, mechanical familiarity.

“Current experiences dictate continuing to follow orders from a Psion. My Psion. You.”

It pauses to raise a tentacle-like arm, its repaired one, to point at Gregory so as to further reinforce its point, before dropping it and continuing on.

“I am not capable of discerning any other purpose or determining what kinds of experiences to assemble to formulate a different ‘purpose’. Even if your objectives are your own... as the Psion for which I was created… I will remain by your side and fulfill orders related to your new objectives.”

An anticipated result. Growth and development… freedom… takes time to truly acquire, even when unbound from the figurative shackles which had previously held a given life-form. The Psion himself, though it is difficult to admit even to just himself, certainly has experience with that. After all, even though his motivations had been quite a bit personal with regards to the second invasion of Earth, deep-down he had been hoping to regain his good standing with the Psion species. Or rather, the good standing he thought he had. To be ‘normal’... when they never really let him. He almost frowns at that. The Psion knows better now. Those things are no longer important. All that matters now is how he can best reorient himself with the values that Maria once held; perhaps not his own original values, but ones that Gregory, on his own, determined were worth following. Values which he would continue following, even if it were to leave him isolated and alone forever. Even if it were to turn the whole universe against him.

True heroes never give up trying to do what is ‘good’. And above all else, they help others, even if it inconveniences them. The situation with the Starman Super might be an inconvenience–namely in the sense that it defeats the purpose a little to have this one under his command when his intent had been to give it the opportunity for more–but, it is once that he will have to accept. If not for the fact that his partially curiosity-driven meddling makes it his responsibility anyways, then certainly because it is the ‘good’ thing to do. Because it is what a hero would do. He floats back and off the chair to give the Starman Super some space if it were to want to move itself from the table. Small clawed digits begin to tap anew, tail swishing behind him in an uneasy manner, before he forces himself to just get on with it already.

“In that case. Perhaps. W… –we can. Um.”

Another stumble and pause; a momentary break to his authoritarian tone. Things like this really aren’t his ‘strong suit’. There’s something decidedly difficult about talking like this; no better than trying to move through an especially thick and viscous substance. He takes a moment to, once again, regather his courage before pressing on. He might not like it, but he supposes that if he is to eventually achieve his overarching goal, he needs to get used to it. Such a thing can only be achieved by continued exposure.

“... –figure out our respective ‘purposes’. Together.”

The golden-hued robot in question jumps off the table, testing its limbs, before addressing the Psion’s proposal. It doesn’t need to mull over this much. Its mind had already been made up. No matter what the Psion does, it will continue to support him and this time around, succeed as opposed to fail like before. It might only be a Super, but for what Gregory wants to achieve, that is more than sufficient.

“What are your preliminary orders?”

#.peanutwriting #.gregory #earthbound au #starman super #starman #giegue #giygas #earthbound #mother 2 #earthbound zero #earthbound beginnings #mother 1 #long post /

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pe4nutastic · 6 months

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So I made another writing thing, but like WAY longer than I originally thought it'd be. Conventionally, I've never really written things that involves me balancing more than one character lol so I'm not sure how adept I am at the balancing act yet.

All the same, this writing thing takes place in sort of alternate universe where Giegue survives M2 (originating from my old, now defunct, RP blog @anearthstruckalien) and is stuck in a kind of limbo where he needs to put his own destroyed mind back together. This is one of the many fragments he addresses.

Everything is muddled like an unwound thread, always unraveling without apparent end, splayed in all directions like spiderwork and tangled into painful knots where it had been unfortunate enough to cross into its own endless trajectory. Muddled away into agony and nothingness. Drenched in darkness and blood, only punctuated by a distorted painful buzzing of so much something. Hot and cold. Wet and dry. Sparking yet dimmed. Suffocating and all-encompassing, like a tomb. Something short and flitting at some points, rising and lowering like especially mercurial tides, and endless at others unlike anything even the deepest and darkest depths of the oceans have ever seen. Thoughts cannot be formed… whatever that is supposed to be. Identity cannot be found, whatever that is supposed to be. Memories cannot be fit together. Whatever that is supposed to be. He cannot discern how long it has been. He cannot even conceptualize how something like that is measured or what it means, even as it passes through him like wind, there and yet not in an instant.

And then. Abruptly, as if forcibly cutting to the next scene of a film in an especially jarring way with bemoaning screeeeeeeech upon reaching the terminal of some arbitrary counter, a sharp pang brings a few things to focus. And now, he can perceive and process his environment. A shred of clarity. A void-like place, painted in an inky and seemingly never-ending darkness–one tinged in an oddly despairing and desolate hue somehow–and littered with glistening bits of bright shards. Incomprehensibly bright and ever-shifting in colour and form; iridescence incarnate. Glimmers of that which is missing, seemingly unable to fit with each other anymore yet drawn to one another anyways with the sense that with enough effort, somehow it could all fit together and become recognizable anew. And altogether with it all, the first proper thought–as opposed to a mess of disjointed sensations and tortuous pain–springing to mind with a sudden start, something indescribably heavy like a pit coursing through what little remains of his very being intact:

Am… I… dying…? Ceasing to… be…?

He squints or rather… would, if he had any associated visual to him. As it stands now, it would seem that the being known as the Universal Cosmic Destroyer, is little more than a flicker of consciousness. The tiniest and most fragile ember from a flame which had previously been extinguished, now sparking anew against all odds and probability. Against the schematics of fate which had dictated that he die in the battle against the Earth’s latest set of Chosen Ones. Dying. Finality. Somehow that seems daunting–though he can’t recall why–yet he cannot feel alarmed by it at all by his own questions nonetheless. He had just regained (or gained?) the ability to properly process his environment and string together thoughts after all. And either way, somehow he knows that this isn’t the end anyways. Or at least, not yet. All he has is a feeling. One padded out by that which sparked that ember of consciousness, fragile as it is, into being. A sense of resilience and indomitable spirit that refuses to bend or break, no matter how hard it is chipped away at by the harshest of elements: willpower and determination.

The will to not die (but from what?). The determination to endure and survive.

And somehow, without definitive rhyme and reason, part of that lies in the glimmering points of iridescent radiances before him, scattered about like stardust in the void. He shifts his gaze towards the one closest to him, feeling something almost like a magnetic pull towards it, and as though on cue… –the very moment he eyelessly stares at it for more than a few seconds, the scene before him is softly wiped clean like chalk off a blackboard and replaced with far less monotonous and simplistic scenery:

A brightly lit room adorned by ivory wallpaper dotted with artfully-administered strokes of tiny multicoloured carnations, light brown hardwood floors, and containing little more than a small window with nothing to see but golden radiance of some kind shining through and a tiny wooden table full of various desserts and cups of tea; one cup before the entity himself and the other… before a blonde woman in a neatly-pressed pale pink dress ruffled at its ends and hanging just past her knees.

Dark blue eyes squint anew with a shrewd sense of calculation as he assesses the room anew, trying to piece together what had exactly happened to shift the location, but unable to come to an answer. A train of thought that inevitably comes to an abrupt halt anyways when he catches sight of himself in the murky reflection of the tea soothingly settled in the ivory nook provided by its petite cup. Shock jolts through him almost immediately, eyes widening just a smidge, as he almost jumps straight out of his plush seat. Small fingers tap at his face and pull his cheek in an almost clinical way, as though jumpstarting a more thorough tactile examination. He looks quite a bit like the blonde woman. He looks… what was the word for it? Human. A young human boy to be precise. Fluffy blonde hair. A set of blue eyes set in white sclera and black pupils. A nose and mouth set into a relatively flat profile and smooth skin. Real skin tinged with warmth, but with minimal color rising to its surface. Human. Somehow it feels like an illusion and yet he cannot recall every being anything else save for the formlessness he had experienced a moment prior. Has he always been human? It doesn’t feel like it, but…

…–and almost as soon as that particular thought starts, it comes to a grinding halt when, after what feels like an eternity of confusion and strangeness (but in actuality was little more than a few seconds worth of time), the blonde woman speaks up.

“Ah you’ve finally arrived! I’m so happy to see you here! It’s been a long time huh?”

She tucks a few strands of gently curling blonde hair behind an ear and all the while, the now human-boy tilts his head to the side a little at the inquiry. A long time? A long time for what? He taps small stubby fingers against the solid wooden top of the table or rather, the long and lacey pale pink tablecloth daintily hanging over it, dull gaze averting in an oddly concentrated way as though attempting to grasp onto something. Bit-by-bit, it feels like something is trickling in so as to fill an emptiness he had not realized he had, but not up to pace enough to leave him anything but perpetually confused and disoriented nonetheless. There must be a more… a more… –efficient? yes, efficient method to this but it would seem that he has little more than the ability to think and process at the moment, knowledge itself lacking save for what inevitably trickles in.

“Are you comfortable? I’ve prepared your favourite tea and some desserts that you’ve always liked just for this occasion. So feel free to take as much as you want of whatever you want. Nothing ever runs out here --take my word for it!”

She winks, one bright and lively blue eye–practically brimming with a zest for life and unwavering optimism for whatever the future may bring–of two, momentarily being obscured by the attached flap of skin before re-emerging. In return, the human boy stares blankly at her for a few seconds before seemingly relenting his inscrutable gaze–unable to find whatever it is he was looking for–before gingerly plucking a shortbread cookie off its pristine plate, intrigued by both the dessert and by what the blonde woman had said. By the very notion of having information that he lacks. Something about that feels right… familiar… but he can’t quite place why exactly. Lifting the cookie directly before him, rather than immediately consuming it, the human boy examines it with just a glint of intrigue in his comparatively dull pupils.

“My ‘favourites’...? I have a favourite? How would you know?”

A genuine question. The entity rather delicately nibbles on the perfectly-formed edge of the cookie, swirling the tiny bit on the tip of his tongue, before taking a proper bite out of it afterwards. One which he hopes will at the very least serve as a good point of reference or direction towards easing away that thick fog cluttering his mind. The cookie is… hm… ‘good’. It tastes good. Familiar. Safe. Safe…? Safe. Dark blue voids flicker back up to meet the blonde woman’s gaze. She seems to have no immediate response, thick eyebrows knitted in thought albeit without ever breaking her gaze on the entity himself, before settling on something, smile dimming a little to something less exuberant and more gentle and understanding.

“It’s a liiiittle tricky to explain if you even need to ask in the first place… but, I know what I do about you because in a way, I’m a part of you.

The one part that’s never changed… –that never could.

No matter how much everything else got rearranged.

…it’s never changed. You were still you. You still are.”

She taps a finger over where the human heart would be located, over the left side of her chest as she makes a claim of being part of the entity himself. And she does just that, something lights up in softened iridescence over that point, in the shape of a stylized heart, the same occurring immediately to the entity himself in the exact same point and thus emphasizing the verity of her very point, dark blue voids widening just a smidge in surprise before giving way to a small pensive frown. He sharply glances down to his own chest as the light fades away. Part of him…? He taps the same spot a few times. But, he’s right here and yet… even though it seems nonsensical, it somehow seems to make perfect sense anyways. Instinctively so. The answer isn’t as direct as he had been hoping, but maybe it’s meant to be this way. Meant to be? There’s a word for that. Destiny. A bitter taste in his mouth. Fate. A sensation that twists and churns his guts (if he had any to begin with) with intense fervor for reasons he cannot entirely parse out… –doesn’t matter. It doesn’t apply in this situation anyways. Because this is on a significantly smaller scale anyways.

The entity takes a small sip of the hot and soothing tea before him, a cooling sensation immediately hitting afterwards despite its true temperature setting. Peppermint. Much like the shortbread cookies, it indeed seems pleasant to his palate. Between this, what he captured beyond this world in the form of glittery fragments amidst a void, and the growing conglomerate sensation (familiarity, safety, trust) towards the blonde woman… it seems that there’s more merit than ‘meets the eye’ to this interaction. Clarity starts with this. Perhaps that’s why he was the most drawn to this fragment. Another small sip of the peppermint tea. Perhaps that’s why not receiving a direct answer is the most conducive to dispersing that thick fog over his mind. Towards feeling less empty.

“Perhaps. But, if what you are saying is accurate, then I must be incomplete.

In… pieces.

It is what my… ‘gut’ is telling me… though it also ‘feels’... incorrect to rely on such a thing.” He glances back down at the tea, settled shortly after his last sip, and down to his murky reflection in it before shaking his head. “This form feels incorrect. As though I should have a different shape...”

Yet another sip of the peppermint tea, head tilting slightly to the side afterwards as he continues to speak, any uncertainty from before evaporating to be replaced by what seems to be rather characteristic of him; blank neutrality and flatness.

“Being in pieces is not my natural state, is it? Is this interaction a way of pulling everything back together?”

The blonde woman takes a sip of her own tea. Chamomile tea. He can tell what it is somehow, without having tasted it and even before its smell registers with him. It’s her favourite. Just like the carnations dotting the worn wallpaper. She taps her head for a moment as she responds, a hint of playfulness entering her tone as she does so.

“Maybe. Maybe not. I can’t just tell you directly, but I can give that knowledge as an exchange of sorts.”

The entity lifts up his own cup of tea anew, as though planning to drink it, before deigning to just swirl the liquid around a bit as if mulling something over before responding, a twinge of determination entering his tone as he does so. Of course not. He isn’t being fed direct answers, but being directed towards them after all.

“What kind of exchange?”

Her smile widens, matching the playful tone as it continues to seep into her next few words.

“We can play a game and if you win, then I’ll be more direct with you. A game of…”

She pauses, frowning a bit herself in a rather pensive manner as if mulling over a few options herself to determine which one would be best for truly helping the entity, before settling on something and with that, clasping her hands together with renewed enthusiasm.

“... –of riddles! It’s a pretty simple points-based game with two roles: the one that makes up the riddles, the Riddle Master, and the one that answers them.

The Riddle Master gets points by making up riddles that the other player can’t answer while the player gets points by successfully giving the correct answer to the Riddle Master’s riddles. No one loses points, you either get them or you don’t.

In this game, I’ll be the Riddle Master and you’ll be the one answering. There’ll be a total of 5 riddles. How does that sound for you?”

The entity hesitates very little, taking just a moment to mentally go over the exact parameters of the suggested game, before offering a definitive nod. He’s already determined that judging by every minute improvement in his state here… it’s best to simply ‘play’ along, no matter how counterproductive it may seem. He implicitly trusts her, even if the reason why exactly cannot be parsed out, and so this aspect to him must represent someone that was (and perhaps still is) important to him.

“I accept your arrangement. Proceed with the ‘game’.”

The blonde woman takes another sip of her chamomile tea, gulping the rest of it down in one fell swoop before gently moving aside the empty cup… one which stays empty for only a second or so before the familiar steam of freshly crafted tea wafts through the air anew, as if no progress had been made on it to begin with. ‘As much as you want’ huh? The entity consumes the rest of his shortbread cookie, as if to test the theory for himself, and in line with what he had just seen… the empty spot on the plate from which he had plucked it is immediately filled with a new shortbread cookie as its replacement; a reinforcement that this is a matter of the mind… he thinks. At this juncture, he only has sensations and hunches –not true concrete data to confirm if there is anything more than this. He smoothes out the neck of his grey sweater before folding his own hands together with definitive intent and concentration, dark blue voids narrowing accordingly. All the more reason to ‘play along’ and succeed in this game.

“Alright! Let’s get to it then. I’ll keep the first three riddles simple and easy; a good warm-up before getting to the trickier ones.

What… disappears as soon as you say its name?

That’s it. That’s all you’re getting to work out the answer!”

The entity immediately gets to thinking over the answer. A riddle is an inquiry that appeals to logic, problem-solving, or both. And so, it either has an answer that’s so obvious one wouldn’t even consider it or clues scattered throughout as the characteristics of what the answer is supposed to be. Judging by the minimal nature of this riddle… it must be the former. The answer is obvious. Something in plain sight. An auditory component to it. Speaking aloud the name of the subject will make it disappear and so, it can only exist so long as one doesn’t speak… ah. He almost smiles, satisfied, even by such a trivial accomplishment.

“The answer is ‘silence’. Not making any sound is a condition inherent to maintaining it therefore, it ceases to be once sound is made.”

The blonde woman gives an affirmative nod in agreement, sticking two closed fists with thumbs sticking out as if to reaffirm the point. The entity isn’t entirely certain as to what he should make of the gesture, but based off her body language, he can only deduce that it is a positive gesture. One whose continued enthusiasm is admittedly a little endearingly infectious though he doesn’t quite outwardly show it yet. He doesn’t feel as though he is the sort to ‘warm up’ quickly to others, but something about this comes just as naturally as trust did, tinged with a sense of ‘deja vu’, as though he’s done this many times over before. Something about this contents him, the familiarity and warmth prevalent throughout their entire interaction thus far playing no small role in this, even though the game has just started.

“That’s right aaaand one point for you! You’re a natural at this –I knew you would be! You’ve always been clever. But, can you handle this one too?

What has many keys, but can’t open a single lock?”

Hm. Yet another question with very minimal clues and in lieu of that, an obvious answer to it. Keys and locks. A key? A key is… a key is… hm… oh! something that is used to open places safeguarded by a matching lock! Keys and locks are a pair, one shape fitting the other in order to move the mechanism keeping its interconnected block in place against those without the necessary key. Small fingers pensively tap his chin. But, in this case… the key in question has no matching lock. Several keys without matching locks to be specific. A quality inherent to the object in question and not the result of some defect or damage, if he has analyzed the phrasing correctly.

Admittedly… be it due to his gaps in actual knowledge or not, he cannot imagine anything which would have multiple useless keys attached to it. But then… perhaps the term ‘keys’ does not refer to what his initial instinct falls upon. Maybe he needs to consider alternate contexts of it…–an abrupt pause mid-thought, by the sound of the blonde woman tapping her fingers over top the table’s wooden surface. A rhythmic and intentional motion…

… –as though, she’s creating music. An oddly familiar tune, sweet yet bitter in a way he can almost grasp, like words just at the tip of his tongue. Understanding clicks into place. Playing an instrument. With keys.

“A piano. The answer is a ‘piano’.”

No need to explain this time. The abrupt, almost enthused despite the blandness of his tone, way in which the entity himself answered, cutting straight through the tapping says it all. He’s certain in his conclusion with no need to explain it to the one that created the riddle in the first place. And as such, he receives another set of ‘thumbs up’. Something which sparks a bit of brightness in his heart anew; contentment and satisfaction at succeeding.

“Correct! Two points now!

For someone that doesn’t remember much, you’re pretty good at this game, but remember, this is the last easy question before things get more challenging okay?”

A playful wink on her part while the entity does little more than offer a curt nod, much of his attention glued more to whatever the next question may be. It’s difficult to parse out the exact words for this sensation, but it’s hooked him in rather quickly; a combination of its familiarity and the mental exercise it offers.

“What do you call two birds in love?”

And with that question, the blonde woman uses her respective thumbs and and index fingers to form the shape of a heart as if to emphasize the ‘love’ part. The entity himself stares at the motion, from start to end, with a blank stare despite his enjoyment of the game before focusing in on piecing it out. It doesn’t seem like a true riddle. The question does not seem to have an object inherent to its answer, but a term instead. He rubs his chin. An odd departure or perhaps a format that he cannot recall, due to his fragmented state of being at the moment. He thinks on it for a few seconds more before shaking his head, a touch disappointed in himself, and ultimately relenting.

“Apologies. I do not know. Would you be so kind as to enlighten me on the matter?”

A short and sweet–almost as musical as her voice, like gentle wind chimes–burst of laughter bubbles out her mouth at that before its obscured by an arm, bare skin far less effective than actual fabric would have been were the sleeves of her dress not short. Nonetheless, once the blonde woman regains her composure enough, the answer comes out in one similarly short burst as if retelling an especially thrilling punchline to a joke.

“Tweet-hearts! Get it? Because they’re birds and in love –like sweet hearts haha!”

Another short and sweet burst of laughter, her hand gently smacking the table with a soft yet no less resounding thunk, clearly thoroughly enjoying the joke herself. The entity on the other hand… though he understands the concept of it and the wordplay that inspired it, mouth twitching a bit, before he just turns his head to the side. And he does so in a rather petulant and oddly childish way, as if overcome with an emotion from a separate moment in time tipped in deja vu, before huffing through his nose to forcibly dissipate any genuine amusement that may (or may not) have been felt by him.

“That is not a riddle. It is wordplay. You tricked me.”

In response, the blonde woman sticks up a single finger and wags it side-to-side, having long since gotten the last bit of her amusement out of her system, evidently finding great amusement in jokes like this.

“Uh-uh! By definition, a riddle is a question or statement with a clever twist to it. And all clever twists need ingenuity to properly entangle, don’t you think?”

Incapable of actually keeping up the petulant facade–the emotion as insincere as everything else might as well be about him at this juncture–where the human woman herself is concerned, the entity ultimately relents and turns back to her with a nod.

“... I suppose. Does it count against me then?”

She shakes her head, high energy dimmed a little but no less bright and warm in her overall demeanor nonetheless.

“It’s just a joke –a bit of humour! Pretty punny don’t you think? Don’t worry, this one doesn’t count against you. You still have two points. Two for you. Zero for me.

Are you ready to move onto the next riddle? Two more left. And remember, it gets more challenging from here on out.”

The most immediate answer that pops to mind is a resounding ‘yes’. And yet, the entity finds himself halted by a sudden and odd sense of melancholic emptiness, one which almost completely replaces the contentment he had experienced before. He downs the rest of his peppermint tea, somewhat hoping to distract himself from the uncomfortable sensation, but ultimately failing. How familiar. The sense of deja vu is even stronger than before and it’s only really hitting him now. It isn’t just the game itself, but the exact questions and wordplay interjection that’s familiar. Nonsensical as it sounds, this exchange feels as though it’s happened before in every exact step…at least on the blonde woman’s part. The entity himself has changed. Somehow, he’s certain of it… certain that when (if) this actually happened in reality… he more closely mirrored the blonde woman’s demeanor. He glances back down at the now empty cup before it immediately refills itself with the steaming and soothing aroma of the peppermint infused liquid. The entity himself has changed, even before the fragmentation event, and likely for the worst. He takes a renewed cursory glance at his surroundings, one with renewed clarity even through the still ever-present fog in his mind.

The surroundings make a lot less sense now. The odd minimalism and the overly bright hues to everything (now that he really looks at it) as if it all has a subtle glow to it… the lack of anything beyond pure radiance outside the window… it seems less like reality and more like a dream. A thing of the mind after all. Something in his chest tightens. Hesitation encased in dread cutting through what remains of his contentment before he mentally presses on with a determined nod, ready to hear the next riddle.

“A star twinkles in the distance, a wonder of its existence. In exchange for a bird, the silence of a child. A question of the sheep's provisions.

What is it?”

More challenging indeed. The format is far less simple, especially when he’s on the cusp of what feels vaguely like an awakening of sorts. A stab through delusion which, if he is to fully submit to the idea that this isn’t what reality is actually like, he must not have wanted to recover from on some level. Not if it took for him this long to figure it out if he really is as supposedly clever as she claims. And yet, despite the cloudiness introduced to his logical processes, the answer comes much quicker than before with little introspection needed on his part. Like he already knows it… because he almost certainly already does. Quick as it comes however, some of that hesitation from before rushes back with a biting vengeance. It… hurts? Something does. The game is almost over after all and yet, his determination to see it through remains anyways. Feeble as it may be… the entity nonetheless, pushes on anyways like before.

“...a lullaby.”

Almost despondently so, his gaze averting off to the side, but never fully breaking the blank neutrality of his tone. Then silence for a bit. A much needed reprieve and yet, one which even in the absence of the final riddle, only lasts for a short burst of time or so before his mind wanders back to the blonde woman’s tapping from before. With a bit more clarity gained now… he not only realizes that she was giving him a hint as to what the answer to the second riddle was, but that he actually knows the words. Sweet yet painful. More clear images–and with it, the surroundings losing their subtle glow and coming more into focus–starting to filter through like film from an old movie that might have once been in pristine condition, but has now long since degraded, cutting off at certain points while slanting in an unsightly way at others. Another pang of clarity. He almost doesn’t want to play anymore. To stop it at this before things go too far… before he is far too gone to return to being more contented and… and… normal.

N o r m a l. He’s always wanted to be normal, but they would not let him.

A discordant thought. One which he neatly sweeps aside, finding it easier to do so as opposed to letting it run any further, before forcing his attention back on the game. Despite everything… he still, at the end of it all, feels inclined to finish. He has to finish because this is important. More than he had initially surmised in his far less lucid state upon arriving here. At that conclusion, as if on cue, the blonde woman starts on the next riddle with no further lighthearted comments or jabs, her expression going completely inscrutable yet no less determined as if she knows the end is near in more ways than one. An awakening is coming and though it’s a bit hard to pop the entity’s bubble… though it feels cruel… she must press on. It’s better this way.

“Three points. Onto the last riddle

I’m always old yet sometimes new.

Never sad yet sometimes blue.

Never empty but sometimes full.

Never pushy but always pulling.

Always here even when I’m gone.

What am I?”

The entity’s eyes widen as though he’s just been sloshed with a bucket of ice-cold water. Inexplicably so. Nothing about the wording is especially offensive and yet something tightens in his chest anyways. The very feeling which had been building up over the course of this whole interaction peaking and exploding by the very last sentence of the riddle, small hand reaching up to tightly grip just over his chest, where his heart would be were he actually as human as he appears. The moon. Gone. He knows it. Not real. She’s gone. He knows that this is the answer with 100% certainty and yet the answer is caught in his throat anyways, as blocked and paralyzed as he’s abruptly become as something inscrutable splits, fracturing like glass or like one layer of a haze which had hung over him ever since he had gained cognizance anew. She’s gone. The moon in all of its mundane glory. A basic satellite that orbits the earth. Her home. She’s gone. A rock inhospitable to humans and littered with maria, dark flat regions that look like bodies of water from a distance–

…–maria? He shakes his head to himself. No. Not maria, but Maria. Maria.

Maria. She’s gone. Always here. Always gone.

It all cliiiiiiicks into place. Not in full–that much requires a far lengthier and more arduous journey–but enough to properly identify that which pertains to the blonde woman before him. His hands curl into tight fists by his sides, posture going completely rigid as he shakes his head, as though that would somehow magically make this particular ‘awakening’ stop. To Maria. His dearest mother. His only family. The one and only bit of good in his life before everything was irreversibly poisoned.

Poisoned by them.

And as if in direct response to that particular thought, rising up against it amidst everything else, something abruptly breaks on the inside and against all odds, out gushes a sensation even more overwhelming than what’s just hit him. Overwhelming enough to push aside that odd melancholic emptiness, bitterness, and despair which had all too fast begun to fill him. A jumbled patchwork of emotions that shouldn’t fit together yet do all the same nonetheless, tumbling out at various intensities and moments without rhyme or reason. And it is all because of her, with one particular emotion far above the others at the core and helm of it all. The very base origin behind everything felt now. The planet to everything else which revolves around it.

An all-encompassing, rich, and impossibly deep sensation, almost suffocating in its concept, almost too overwhelming to contain within his fragile body yet somehow it manages to be anyways. It permeates every fibre of his being. It exists in every crevice and space where it could fit within the essence which constitutes who he is.

Warmer than the simple, bright, and short sprigs of happiness from before.

More passionate than the most concentrated poisons of hatred.

Beyond all comprehension and in complete violations of all logical conventions; the very pinnacle of irrationality, evolved beyond its initial spark and into its final transcendent format.

Love.

Yes. That’s right. It’s clear to him now. More than anything else, he loves her. He had forgotten that he did, for a bit, but now that he is no longer blinded by… other things… he realizes that there is nothing more important than that.

Nothing more important than her.

That is what has come gushing out with such vigor. The true form of his feelings towards his adoptive human mother. That is the precise name of that sensation. It only hurts because he loves her. It hurts because it mattered.

Because it still does.

Despite everything, it still matters.

She still matters.

“Maria. Mother.”

He hesitates, sadness sharply pinpricking his heart with renewed enthusiasm against the seemingly endless onslaught of love as if attempting to strike a particular emotional balance and with it, a strange and foreign wetness forming at the corners of his eyes. Liquid. Strange, upsetting, and rending liquid. Are his optical receptors broken…somehow, even here in a dream…? He rather tentatively glances down at his refilled cup of peppermint tea to discern the true identity of the mysterious liquid, almost jumping back as he does so, his chair making a muffled skidding sound on the floor as the only indication of his shock. His appearance is no longer human. He appears as he feels he should, but perhaps a bit small? A small clawed digit pokes at an upright and triangular ear, then at his stubby snout, large dark blue voids (the same colour through every part of his eyes, from the sclera to the pupils) narrowing in the welcome distraction that this provides before closing his eyes with a sigh, the clear liquid dripping out and staining the otherwise pristine pink tablecloth before him. Fists somehow becoming even tighter, claws digging into the palms of his hands without drawing blood.

“Are you really here?”

The question comes tumbling out, rigid neutrality finally properly breaking a bit under the enormous weight of what can only be his own grief reborn–having originally never been permitted to properly manifest and instead, kept at bay by things that seem awfully petty and meaningless now–before he can stop himself. He knows. He knows the answer to his own question. The painful, bitter, and ugly truth. He knows and yet he can’t help asking, hoping to be wrong. To receive an answer to halt what he’s reliving; the warmth and intensity of love, outlined by crushing and unrelenting sadness. Maria herself reaches out–the chairs, table and everything on it having mysteriously vanished now seemingly in accordance with this change in the entity himself, as smoothly and seamlessly as if it had been like this all along–and bending down to the entity’s now diminutive height, her expression twisted a little with concern, and gently presses a thumb at the corners of his eyes to wipe a few more budding tears away.

“My dearest Giegue, I’m always with you. And I always will be.”

She pulls him into a hug and overwhelmed by the flurry of emotions as he is, Giegue does not resist. Rather he numbly allows for it to happen, more liquid leaking out his eyes to replace that which Maria had so kindly wiped away, his mouth pressed into a rather tense line that faintly quivers as if holding back so much more. He can’t breathe, physiological impossibility of that aside. He can’t move. He can barely think, what little he can manage utterly dedicated towards “getting it together”, simply-put. His memories are largely incomplete, but this feels awfully pathetic anyways. As though he’s supposed to be better than this. As though he has no right to break and bend at all and rather, has a duty towards remaining completely militant. To otherwise fail to do so, as he is now, admittedly makes him feel hatred not just for them in general but for himself for being unable to do something so basic and so much more.

“You’ll always have a bit of the most important people inside your heart. They’ll always be a part of you, even after they’re long gone.

Memories might hide in different parts of the mind’s maze, but they’re never really gone.

You never really forget the important things. Do you understand?”

Of course he understands, comprehension cutting through the budding self-hatred for a moment. He slowly, almost tentatively moves just a bit to loosely return her hug. But, that’s exactly what makes this so difficult. He knows. He knows that, though the sincerity of her words rings through, this isn’t the real Maria. It’s an aspect of his mind. Love and maybe a bit of hope made manifest in the form that which exclusively inspires such an irrational state of being. He closes his eyes shut rather tightly, pointed teeth grinding harshly from behind the tight line of his mouth. He knows. His fingers claw into the pink fabric of her dress as if he’s been starved of something for a very long time and can no longer continue to push back the desire to be satiated at long last. He knows that he needs to complete this interaction in order to move onto the next fragment of many out there. To become more complete. And yet… his grip on the pink fabric abruptly tightens at the thought of having to move onto something else. How despicable. And yet… he briefly entertains the thought of never properly waking up. Disgusting. Of never becoming complete again. Lowly scum. Of the dream never ending.

Irrationally so.

Irrational. Stupid. And selfish.

Childishly so.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Let go.

But, he can’t.

Move on.

To what…?

Get over it.

How can he? Everything has unraveled too far to neatly tie back up in its box.

Let go.

NO. Never again. That fleeting thought of never repairing himself is promptly crushed underneath his proverbial and unyielding heel. How can he even think like that? Be that pathetic and weak? Somehow. He knows that it isn’t like him. And even if it is, then he knows that he needs to transcend such a basal nonetheless. To be better. Stronger this time around. A slow and disapproving shake of his head to himself before the Psion pulls back from the hug, letting go of her dress and recomposed just a bit albeit still teary, and levitates up enough to meet Maria at eye level. The first display of his psionic power since he regained his ability to think and process things at all, perhaps in response to the latest bit of growth towards becoming complete.

For several moments, he just stares at her. Just stares and stares and stares while she patiently waits, completely nonplussed–a glimmer of understanding no less prominent in her gentle gaze–by this particular development. He can’t find the words. Despite his renewed, albeit still shaky, determination… words fail him anyways. Despite knowing just how much of an illusion this actually is… mountains of mountains of mountains of words pile up all at once, much like the way all these feelings and thoughts of his had come rushing back in a jumbled mess. There’s so many things that he wants to say. Things he’s always wanted to say to her; archived for millenia until the consequent backlog became almost impossible to contain, now bursting out and flooding his mind in violent waves. She’s not really here. She’s gonegonegone.

Destined to never cross paths with him again.

Like lines that can never intersect.

GONE.

There’s NO POINT in saying anything meaningful. And yet…

“I am sorry. I could not be what you wanted me to be. I have failed you.”

He cannot help himself anyways. His head dips down, gaze averted towards the ground while his shoulders hunch ever-so-slightly, thoroughly miserable. Shame. Pure and unadulterated shame. Out of the billions of things that he could say… that he shouldn’t bother with saying on principle… this comes out anyways. A hollow apology tinged with regret. Like that fixes anything, especially when he cannot entirely recall what he’s sorry about in the first place. All he knows is that he’s deeply regretful about everything and that it is because he has in a way that is exceedingly wrong. Utterly unworthy of all that she has invested in him in the short time they had known each other. Is that really all he can say anymore after everything? More liquid leaks out his eyes and falls, guided by the gravity of this dream towards the nonexistent ground now, blanked out by pale yellow hues in place of the wooden floor from earlier. All the while, Maria shakes her head as if in disagreement with the Psion’s outward claims and the thoughts running through his mind earlier on, before gently pressing a hand to his shoulder.

“You haven’t failed me. I think that… sometimes… we lose our way in life. That doesn’t mean that we can’t find our way back. Most people don’t stay lost forever.

The fact that you’re sorry at all is proof that you’re part of that majority.”

She steps forward and takes his small stubby hands into her own, cold contrasting against the very human warmth of her fair skin. A beat. And the Psion himself instinctively returns the grip–even though he shouldn’t–though he still doesn’t shift his gaze off the ground.

“Giegue. You’re capable of more good than you know.

I still believe in you. I always have and always will. Because… just as I’ve said before, despite everything, you’re still you.

And I’ve always believed that you had a good heart. I still do.

It’s never too late to turn away from the path you’ve been on thus far and do what’s right. To be good against all perceived odds. Even your own.”

Giegue wants to irrationally resist. Hands twitching with intent to ball into fists, but only halting that particular action because said appendages in question are intertwined with hers. Resist her words. Resist the sense of ease starting to creep its way through him. He wants to hold onto all that hatred, bitterness, and misery for as long as he can… to press it so close to his very core that he will never forget how rendingly awful it feels. He deserves it. Just as much as he wants to never let go of her, even if she’s just an illusion here. And yet, he finds himself comforted by the words anyways, pain ebbed away by her warmth and kindness. It’s absurd.

Because even if she’s an illusion… an apparition of his mind… he cannot bring himself to sincerely fight her on this. He cannot deny her. Not anymore. So the only option he has is to simply let himself be comforted by it, somehow, and instead focus on seeing this interaction through to its end. The surrounding details fading further away, window and wallpaper disappearing until the background is little more than a pastel rainbow of color splotches twinkling with a mysterious kind of radiance, like the starry night sky.

Good. Being good. Is it really that simple?

It hardly seems like it, especially for a creature such as himself. The sincerity of her words come through as clearly as his rediscovered… love… for her and yet, he cannot help doubting himself anyways. He’s comforted by her words, but doubt creeps in just as swiftly as comfort comes nonetheless. He’s done nothing to warrant such faith in his apparent intrinsic ‘good’. Absolutely nothing. That much, he’s certain of, even in the absence of supporting memories and knowledge to that. Because he was created by them. The Psion species and they are certainly not good. Because Maria is indisputably good and Giegue himself is nothing like her. His shoulders hunch further, twitching but not accompanied by any further tears, his gaze somehow dipping down even further –fixed to the ground with even more intent than before. Then he speaks, expression as blank as the tone of his words despite the uncertainty, misery, and lack of direction behind them.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I nonetheless no longer have a purpose.

What am I supposed to do anymore?

There are many gaps in what I can recall at this juncture, but somehow I simply know that there is nothing meaningful beyond this ‘dream’.”

He pulls his hands away from Maria, so as to wipe away the last few pinpricks of liquid off the corners of dark blue voids, shaking his head as he does so despite the resignation from before, emotional vulnerability of a new sort cracking through his renewed neutrality as he continues on, volume gradually quieting as he reaches the end of his message.

“I don’t know what to do anymore.

I’m… I am…. afraid that I am not strong enough to do anything else.

That I am only good for causing destruction and harm.

I am… afraid that… that I am not strong enough to be more than what they wanted.”

For a moment, there’s a brief flicker of sadness in her ever patient, gentle, and understanding gaze–a breakage in kindness and optimism paralleling the breakage in the Psion’s neutrality–before it snaps back to normal. Then a pause as Maria carefully thinks over how to answer. How to even begin addressing his feelings. Complex things entangled in such a way, hatred completely and utterly integrated throughout, that it could not possibly be resolved in one fell swoop. Nonetheless, the apparition has hope and unwavering belief in her son’s strength. The memory of her would not exist at all if he really were as hate-worthy and weak as he believes. And deep down he knows it. She places her hands, one atop the other, over her heart while a small, hopeful, and knowing smile makes its way back onto her face anew.

“I only want for you to be happy with yourself and your life again. It might seem impossible to you now, but I know that it will come to pass.

Giegue.

You are so much stronger than you know.

The answer might not be immediately clear to you on what you’re meant to do now, but that’s okay. You’ll figure it out and make it through. You always do.”

Much like before, the Psion is hit with that impulsive and irrational desire to rebel against her words, but this time he quashes that impulse much more quickly. Even if he cannot quite believe in himself the way she’d like for him to… he has to somehow try anyways. If not for his sake, then certainly for hers. He straightens his posture out and finally returns Maria’s gaze more properly, a fragile yet no less determined glint reflecting off dull pupils. His doubts and fears cannot be mitigated so easily, but that does not matter because if he allows for himself to be completely consumed by such lowly sensations then he will only end up wasting the time, effort, and love–unworthy as he is of it at all–the real Maria had put into him long ago. Apparition or not, the feelings of his which manifested it to begin with are real. And in his… ‘heart’... he knows that this is how the real Maria would feel.

“Do you really believe that…?”

One last slippage, one last glint of vulnerability, and he’s done. It’s a question he cannot help asking. Especially now that the apparition before him has abruptly lost her details in line with the renewal of his resolve, demoted to little more than a vague pink outline while the multicolored splotches of their collective backdrop fragments to reveal the void from earlier on, sans a glimmering fragment. The very development he had been dreading, but he holds strong against it with rigid neutrality. He has to. For her sake.

“Do you even need to ask? Of course I do.”

She then looks down at herself, starting to fade now with the rest of the scattered backdrop pieces, and sighs a touch disappointed. As if she had been hoping for a little more time despite knowing that this final outcome was near.

“Our time here is almost done. You’ve achieved what you needed to. Before I go… can I make one last request of you…?

I know that it might be a bit much with everything that you’ll have to face moving forward–”

The apparition is abruptly cut off before she can finish her sentence when the Psion sticks out a stubby arm, palm facing outward and towards her as a silent indication to cease speaking immediately. No explanation is needed. He will always help her without question. She needn’t even ask. Such is the ‘power of love’ in all those… stories of heroes and monsters that his adoptive human mother used to tell him, is it not? In the end, love always prevails and though mere fiction, it certainly applies here.

“Yes. Anything. You can have no request that is too unreasonable for me to fulfill.

Though I may be uncertain on where I… ‘fit’... now… there is something that I can nonetheless say with certainty on how I will exist from now on.

And it is that… no matter what happens, has happened, or will happen… I will always stand by your figurative side through it all.

No matter what, I will never abandon your memory.”

The Psion receives no immediate response, the apparition taken aback for a moment, as if she hadn’t been expecting this particular response. Or at least, not so quickly. Strange for a mere apparition born of his mind. As an aspect of him, she should have anticipated this particular result anyways, but then… he was rather heavily damaged. His entire mind had fractured and so, certain… incongruencies can be expected. Nonetheless, the apparition quickly recovers, a bit of pride making its way into her fading features as she smiles for the last time, embracing the Psion as she does so which he more immediately returns this time around. A tentative and awkward, as if completely unused to contact like this, but not less sincere in its gentle nature.

“I should have known. I won’t hesitate then.

Protect the Earth and all life on it, won’t you?”

Gone. Gone. Gone. Her voice fades away as she speaks along with the rest of her form, little more than a ghostly whisper lost to the void. She’s gone. One hand curls into a small and tense fist, both dropping by their respective sides, while his eyes screw shut.

Some part of him admittedly felt compelled to reach out, as if that would somehow stop what had happened. Another part felt inclined to call out to not leave, even though he already knew such an inevitability was near. The visuals made that much abundantly clear. He should have done this. He should have done that and yet, it happened too fast for him to do anything but reel in the cold and isolated aftermath of it all. An aftermath from which he cannot falter; he had already done far enough of that and at this juncture, he must remain strong even as renewed bits of wetness threaten to deftly slide out the corners of his eyes.

The real Maria is long gone. She has been for a very long time. That was just an apparition. Nothing more and nothing less.

Gone, but certainly not forgotten.

The pale alien takes a moment to just… accept what’s happened… the part he supposed would be hardest, even though he had braced for it. One. Two. Three. An inhalation of air. Four. Five. Six. An exhalation of air. Then he opens his eyes anew and glances out at the remaining fragments in the darkness as the remaining bits of the previous fragment’s backdrop morph into pure glittering golden light–the very same which had once shone through the window in the dream–before concentrating into a beam that fades into his body, right where a heart would be if he physiologically had one.

“I will. I promise.”

The semantics of that do not matter. Whether it's more complicated or simpler than he can currently envision, limited as his current database is, he will certainly see her request through to the very end.

It's the least he can do. The only thing he can do for her anymore as her son.

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pe4nutastic · 1 month

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Escape to Earth

After that little warm-up drabble that I wrote the other day, I've decided to get to something that I've wanted to write for a while. I don't know how good it is exactly, but I'm just happy to have finished it at all. In any case, this drabble focuses on an early chapter of Giegue's life whereby George, Maria, and Giegue (as a kid ofc) attempt to escape the laboratory facility where the caretaking experiment involving them took place. Specifically, this writing thing opens into a major point of conflict when they are stopped by a fully-seasoned adult Psion guard.

Trigger warnings (as always) are in the tags.

Actually on second thought, just to be safe. Trigger warnings are as follows: body horror, death, gore, blood. If I've missed anything please do let me know and I'll fix it immediately.

Small stubby four-digit hands grip the slim yet notably thicker wrists of a tall slender being, sharp claws desperately digging in with great futility against cold hard skin. It’s like trying to move a weighty statue, but this is no statue. Against all reason, this thing he had put himself in front of, was a living creature, but something didn’t seem quite right about it. A slight shudder shakes his petite body like a leaf in the wind. Something felt weirdly… empty about it. An inexplicable twinge of revulsion and he almost feels inclined to shake his head at, were it not for the currently dire situation at hand. Something…

… –scary! Awful! Not normal!

The thought comes barrelling through like a bullet; faster than he can ever have hoped to stop it. Faster than he can even chide himself for being so cruel over its appearance and body. Faster than he had even realized what it meant to teleport in one go and teleported in kind to save his dad from this thing. Because its eyes, previously transfixed upon the fleeing form of the human man emboldened enough to defy the supreme will of the Psions themselves, had slowly–almost lazily as if this were little more than a mere inconvenience–had swiveled down to make more direct contact with Giegue’s own, large and panic-widened pools of dark blue.

Voids. True voids.

His mouth drops open, agape in petrifying fear. It’s easy to mistake them for being like his based off the immediate physical characteristics… but this is different. There’s nothing reflected in them. Not even light or a spark of life. There’s nothing behind them… –no understanding for anything other than to address the situation as it saw fit. Just holes etched into a deadened visage. Another shudder runs through him, this one far more violent than the last, as if he had just been drenched in water far beyond its piercing freezing point.

A monster. A true monster. Just like the scariest ones in all those old fairytales. Except it’s real. Like a nightmare come true.

It’s terrifying. Awful that it looks so much like him, but with an extra set of eyes and more refined features. Is he… is he… one day going to be like that too–?

He can’t look any longer. But, even as the impulse strikes him hard, he bites back the urge to avert his gaze or screw his eyes shut with a ferocity that would certainly draw blood if he had any… –heros don’t do that! With renewed willpower, pointed teeth somehow gritting harder than before, claws finding strength beyond that he had thought to be his absolute physical limit to dig in more as he tries harder to push the Psion’s arms up and away from its target. To somehow get the intended attack to change course before it can launch beyond any stopping it. For a moment, he dares to glance back… his dad, George, disheveled (from short brown hair to his clothing) and crumpled on the pristine floors from an especially bad fall in a few initial attacks that just about missed anything vital. Just about, but not quite. A few bad scrapes (from what could be seen under dress pants, now torn at the bottoms and riddled with a few odd holes) oozed a moderate amount of red life liquid… –blood!... and burns scorched across now exposed forearms.

Mouth pressing into a tight line with a subtle twitch to it at the sight of his father in such a state, Giegue looks back and somehow pushes even harder. It’s hard not to immediately let go and come running to his dad… to check on him more closely and do whatever he can to help him feel better, but if he does then, the Psion will definitely finish its attack. Its final attack. A small rat-like tail lashes sharply amidst the ever-rising tenseness of his midair posture, arms shaking as the adult Psion starts to effortlessly push back in the most efficient and graceful of motions, frustration starting to wet the corners of his eyes over his own lack of strength.

He isn’t like the Psion. He can’t do all the things that it can with its powers. He can’t do anything as advanced as it can. He can’t even fight back. Teleporting, floating, and moving small things is all he can do. But he has to do something anyways. He’s the only one that can here! The only one of these creatures that will! Please, please, please, if there’s anyone beyond the cosmos itself, let him find the strength to do something. A bright flicker of luminescent blue light outlines his hands before shorting out like a glitchy screen. A pang of sharp pain as a small crack appears on his arm and with it, a small chip flicks away and falls to the greyscale floors with a dull clatter. Anything. Another crack appears in his opposing arm before the luminescent blue returns more steadily, tracing every new crack that appears with its shimmery blue light as it slowly moves to outline the rest of his body, eyes screwing shut against the pain and effort as he regains ground and begins to move the offending Psion’s arms–said appendages starting to sport spidery cracks of their own–back and up along with their violent blast of energy. Even if it’s only a little bit of power… even if it hurts… even if it takes everything he has until he has no more power left to give.

Please let him save his dad. At that, a blinding flash of that same blue abruptly erupts everywhere, his short ears abruptly filling up with a piercing static-y nothingness, as it flares and weaves about wildly across the entire space like a particularly violent array of solar flares.

He isn’t a hero, but he’d like to be someday and use his powers to help others. And if not that, then to make things that will help others and make them happy.

He isn’t a human, but he’d like to live on Earth with his parents and see all the things that they’ve told stories about.

He isn’t alive the same way that his parents are… that humans are… but somehow, everything can be figured out anyways. That’s what family is for isn’t it?

So long as they have love, everything will work out in the end.

There’s no control. Just raw power that keeps on emptying out of his body. It’s like a tap that keeps on running, but with no means of turning back the crank. Floors smash in a flurry of heavy dents, cracks, and greyish dust that puffs up as a result of some especially critical impacts. Surrounding walls warp and bend inwards, suffering a few. The redirected attack of the adult Psion had struck the ceiling and left quite a sizeable dent in it as a result–any chunks that could have otherwise fallen from it eradicated by the sheer power of its attack–before the pure and unadulterated psionic power, growing more and more in strength as it continues to seep out its source’s body at an exponential rate, strikes the same location and with it busts a gargantuan hole straight into the vacuum of space. Not that Giegue can register any of it in his current state; completely overrun by power he was not yet prepared to properly utilize and incapable of stopping, even if he could regain enough cognizance to do so.

Nothing comes through, only dull impressions of things breaking, crunching, being destroyed and flung about with sickening smacks. Nothing stops the unending devastation. Nothing relents until a bloodcurdling, piercing, familiar sound punctures the dull, blinding, static-y fog which had hesitated little in filling his brain the moment pure psionic power had gushed out his tiny body and in the process of doing so, had almost broken it. Struck with dull yet not less agonizingly painful headache, the young alien finds himself not in the air between himself and the adult Psion but on the ground a little distance away as if violently thrown there, the Psion in question nowhere to be seen… or anything else for that matter, with the air now caked thick in a grey layer of dust unnaturally suspended in it. Squinting rather sharply as he props himself back up, a small hand moving to gingerly rub at a temple as he does so, he can almost make out a shadowy humanoid figure running off in a wrecked panic followed by the sound of a ship engine starting up, but he isn’t entirely certain. Not with how overpowering his headache and consequent disorientation is. Thinking is like trying to wade through molasses; difficult and incredibly slow.

A moment or two passes, the young alien blankly staring at the destroyed surroundings of the very facility which had been the only home he had ever known, and slowly but surely things gradually come into focus:

The piercing sounds of a singular note tortuously reverberating through the monochromatic and angled landscape of what had previously seemed like endless hallways. The very hallways that Giegue himself and his parents had been traversing through to leave for good before being brought to a sudden and violent halt by the guards; a situation which had further escalated once an actual Psion entered the ‘playing field’ amongst the myriad of robots and other creatures he hadn’t quite seen before until now.

A sharpness he had never experienced before until now; oozing and pulsating wretched agony along the cracks and small chips littering his hands right to his forearms. An odd, almost strangled, sort of sound pushes itself out his throat at that, as if somehow the shrillness and simplicity of the sound would ease away the horrid sensation now embedded in his arms.

The characteristically sanitized scent of the facility… –now marred by something vaguely metallic. Like rust.

… … …

A smell he had only ever detected from his parents. An indication in humans that their life fluid had been granted a way out from their bodies.

Blood. And quite a bit of it at that.

Gripped by a suffocating panic all at once, he fully pushes himself to his feet against all the pain and stumbles just a bit, before running towards the strongest of all the varying sources of blood slowly coming into view of his olfactory senses. His gait is uneasy yet determined. Weakened yet desperate. Hoping against all hope that the worst hadn’t happened. And yet, with every step he takes, the dusty air grows clearer and with each bit of additional clarity, more of the devastation he had not been able to register before comes into view. Part of the ceiling seems to be sealed The hallway is riddled with numerous craters, cracks, and bits of broken floor, wall, and ceiling pieces wildly scattered about. Smashed and warped bits of what used to be robots and heavily modified organics lay across varying points of his path, most either contorted beyond recognition or torn apart completely, bits and pieces of metallic parts and burnt flesh generously thrown askew. Blood in an array of different colors splattered and dripping from the walls; a pop of color that the monochromatic landscape had desperately needed, but certainly not like this. Guards that had not been smart or fast enough to take cover. Collateral damage from the conflict.

Every horrible sight imbues a sharp pit and insatiable queasiness to where his stomach would be (if he had one) and quick aversion of his gaze away. Out of sight. Out of mind. He doesn’t even want to think about the dreadful implications let alone admit to them. Not when he’s already plagued with a flurry of nightmarish imaginations and pain. Not when he has to get to his mom. To make sure that she’s okay. To help if… somehow… she… isn’t…

A freezing halt. Both in thoughts and in hurried movements. An enormous pool of red liquid comes all too clearly into view with a piercing clarity, especially once the last of greyish dust clears from the air. Blood and in it, torn scraps of pink clothing and a few golden strands of hair with a definitive wave to it, as if something had been torn apart and vanquished so thoroughly, not much more could remain afterwards.

He stares.

His mind fills with a painful buzzing, rat-like tail beginning to tensely tap atop the cold and utterly ruined floors.

And stares.

The surroundings blur and blot out everything but the gruesome sight before him, clawed digits digging into his stout ears and yanking them down in such a way, if he had the strength, might have otherwise torn them off.

And stares.

Time seems to slow. Reality and anything else utterly removed from this moment. Teeth gritting against the invisible pain blossoming anew, exacerbating that which had already been plaguing him and adding more. This moment. This moment...

And… –s t a r e s.

A moment. The buzzing reaches its fever pitch abruptly, all at once from its decidedly more humble beginnings.

Snapped. An unfathomable coldness seeps into and infects every single fibre of his being. He barely feels like himself anymore. Untethered to anything, but the very dreadful truth he could not look away from.

Utterly transfixed. Suspended in a neverending nightmare. Unable to say or do anything with the realization that crashes into him. Static short circuiting every single complex thought that attempts to form. He’s stuck in this moment.

Stuckstuckstuckstuckstuck…. until… –

Gone. She’s gone.

A stray thought which somehow miraculously starts to form; against all odds, or perhaps as part of an exceedingly delayed shock-induced process, something tethers him back. Hands fall from his ears, tail-tapping atop the ground intensifying, legs turning to jelly and ruthlessly sending him plummeting to the floor. He could never feel it before whenever he’d stumble and fall while playing make-believe with her, but this time everything juts into every nook and cranny of his body with a hot and fiery vengeance.

It hurts.

Something begins to build up in his throat. Something raw, visceral, and utterly unbecoming of the crystal clear coldness displayed by the species.

It hurts.

He falls properly from his knees and lands face-first in the only thing that remains of her anymore. His body begins to shake with a renewed violent vigor.

It’s all his fault.

That something rises in intensity, reverberating in tune with the shaking of his body. Rising and rising and rising, pressure building inside while the cracks across his hands and arms begin to glow with a gentle red luminescence…

All his fault.

The something bursts out in a shrill high pitch, slightly gurgled by his position, but no less piercing and rending. Nothing else feels right. Nothing else fits. He just emits a bloodcurdling scream as if that would somehow empty out this excruciating pain and make everything alright again. He screams and screams and screams until… !!!!!

A peculiar sensation. An overwhelming static-y force on its own frequency cuts through the painful buzzing like a knife through butter. A psychic attack on the mind.

He passes out and into a dreamless void emptiness.

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pe4nutastic · 1 month

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Change

Another pause in activity (burnout--subsiding just now--whoohoo!) and another bit of writing put out. It's a bit more chill compared to some other things that I've written in that, it's post-Mother 2 in a timeline where Giegue/Giygas survives and rather than digging his heels in more, ends up conceding to having been wrong lol.

Spindly segmented legs–three pairs in total; distributed across a thrice divided ovoid black body which itself is extravagantly crowned with fluttering purple wings–neatly lay spread across an outstretched clawed digit of pale blue coloration. A recent point of established contact, but one which had the Psion filled with a mixture of genuine curious–empowered by none other than an indomitably potent drive to accumulate knowledge for its own sake–and apprehension. The butterfly, seemingly impervious to this, finds it fitting to move after a few seconds of being studied as though opposed to being an ordinary member of this planet, were a rare specimen worthy of being subjected to the intense scrutiny and machinations of Psion laboratories. A twinge of vague recoil at the dedication sensation–the tiniest of barely discernible pitter-patters–as it takes a few steps across an outstretched clawed digit, but none that ever makes it beyond an internalized sensation; one that’s quickly swept aside like rubble and efficiently pushed from the forefront of his mind.

He has no use for such things while (indeed akin to a scientist) studying the various life-forms of earth. Defected from the entirety of his species or not, he nonetheless used to be a soldier. A military commander whom in accordance with his position, had seen and endured far more gut-twisting and stomach-churning (if he had such biological objects to begin with anyways) things than an insect’s crawl. The absolute horrors and distortions of the infinite cosmos which would, almost certainly, cause life-forms with weaker hearts to crumple and implode in time. But, not him. Not Giegue himself. Not someone whom had overcome the gears of fate and in the process of doing so, completely rejected the collective wills of his creators and everything they had tirelessly attempted to drill into him. In the end, a spirit so innately deformed and ‘rebellious’ could not be crushed into dust and reformed into the perfect mold of a Psion; a flawed creation. Doomed from the very start; a vehicle for the taint of humanity, no matter how miniscule, to take hold and corrupt everything within entirely.

He could not ever be ‘normal’. Dark blue voids squint just a bit, unnatural sharpness enhancing the unnerving effect of his scrutiny, as he continues to watch the insect move around, periodically fluttering its shimmery wings in the warmth of the sunlight, peeking betwixt the elaborate canopies of endless trees, as it does so. He could not be melted down and reformed into someone ‘normal’ the way a caterpillar had melted down into a cocoon-bound mass and emerged as a butterfly. It had never been that easy for him. But, he had approximated it.

Pretended. A sharp tap of his rat-like tail overtop the cool earth. Donned a hideous mask to conceal the mangled, warped, and broken bits underneath. Pledged that he would never ‘care’ again and lied over and over and over again to himself, that he was the standardized military Psion –not the miserable test subject of a failed experiment. And that in turn, because he was just a Psion, it did not… ‘hurt’... because it couldn’t, by design.

Not that it matters now anymore anyways. Everything had been for naught. All the entities sacrificed and the destruction left in the horrific wake of his violent rampage–fuelled by an insanity-induced lapse of control–had been for nothing. He slowly reaches out with his opposite hand to gingerly tap a lightly curled antenna of the oddly docile butterfly; a curious gesture, almost childish in nature, and nothing more. But in a way, the fact that nothing had come of it was a… good thing. Against the immoveable nature of Psions, it feels as though something had shifted within him. Had he destroyed everything, then he would not have had the opportunity to see life as it is from the perspective of a more ‘ordinary’ citizen, as opposed to a military commander tasked with violent invasion and with it, the extinction of the human race. He would not have had an opportunity to examine something as intriguing as the current specimen before him and the lifecycle that it follows.

Change. It must be nice to become the ideal that one envisions with the flip of a genetic switch. But, it just does not work like that. Not for him. A creature that should not change… that should not experience the phenomenon known as ‘personal growth’... requires a little more effort than that. Even complex creatures receptive to personal growth by design, like humans need to put in a little work to change. In a way, despite the inherent advantage, it’s a little inspiring. If fragile and supposedly ‘irremediable’ creatures like humans can make vast strides like that–the Chosen Ones immediately coming to mind as such an example–then perhaps he can further distance himself from his species of origin and fulfill her wish.

Protect all life on Earth, will you not?

A dream perhaps and nothing more; a fleeting glimmer of light amidst eternal night. But, something that feels as though it holds a grain of truth anyways. The fluttering of purple wings intensifies and just like that the butterfly takes off, wrapped in the warmth of the sun and inviting air of the thick forested area. After all, this was her home was it not? Of course she would not want for it to be destroyed. Be it on the principle of one’s ‘home’ or something different altogether, his adoptive human mother found some value in this planet; enough to directly oppose the Psion himself, long after her physical body had expired. And in turn, enough for him to make an earnest attempt at becoming someone that could fulfill her wish, no matter how seemingly impossible.

He straightens out his posture in a rather dignified way and wipes tiny specks of dirt from his arms before promptly retrieving a hardback sort of grey journal and black ballpoint pen seemingly from midair; a ‘primitive’ manner of data recording, but his choice to make nonetheless. An intentional inefficiency designed to force a little more thought into the way in which the data is recorded. He jots down a few notes–handwriting sloppy (practically illegible scribbles) and unpracticed, as though it has literally been decades since he ever had to physically write anything down–before a shaky attempt at illustrating a basic diagram of the specimen in question, complete with body part labels and purported function(s). A few minutes pass, before the journal slams shut and it (alongside the pen) disappears in a flash which lingers on like bright blue stars before it too vanishes. Onto the next study subject. As plain as it may seem at first–like things he had seen in passing many times over before–there is quite a bit worthy of closer examination and study here.

#.peanutwriting #.giegue (mother series)#giegue #earthbound #mother 2 #earthbound beginnings #earthbound zero #giygas #mother 1 #Lepidopterophobia /#death mention /

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pe4nutastic · 4 months

Text

Happiness

After two months away (due to at least two separate issues that required A LOT of my attention), I've felt the spark of inspiration to write a little drabble upon returning here. In the interest of keeping things short, this drabble features Giegue and a little in-between from when he got the mission he tries to complete in Mother 1, but before he actually starts it.

Happiness. Noun. The state of being happy.

The experience of having all the empty spaces filled with something warm, bright, and positive.

A nebulous thing that seems small yet fills every darkened corner, nook, and cranny to ever exist, even ones that had until that point, escaped the notice of its physically-embedded origin.

Something that many life-forms spend eons chasing with feverish ambition, desperation clawing away at any misgivings or loss of will that occurs in-between, and in turn propels them forward towards that ever-distant effervescent light.

A lofty notion. A foolish endeavor. A lie perpetuated by the chaotic and disorganized nature of life-forms not ingrained with purposes that members of the Psion species are, long before energy is expended to create one.

And as a Psion, he has direction and purpose. He is useful. And thus, he is fulfilled. The emptiness which had once perpetuated his being, decades prior at the termination of the experiment, has been completely wiped away and replaced by his conviction and dedication to fulfilling his predetermined purpose in Psion society.

As such, surely that must mean that he is happy.

In his own way, as a Psion and thus lacking much in the way of emotions, he must have achieved true happiness.

Or at least… that is what he would like to believe, as he rather mechanically walks down the characteristically smooth, monochromatic, and deceptively featureless hallways of Psion infrastructure, in the moments following his latest issued mission.

The one which had always been ‘in the cards’ since that human man… George… had escaped with classified knowledge. The day when retribution would finally be dispensed. The moment when his own… –the mistakes of the past would finally be rectified. The final trial through which he would undergo to finally ascertain that he is now capable and clear-minded–emptied of all erroneous attachment and so-called ‘feelings’–enough to be fully trusted with anything and everything as a high-ranking military operative. To prove to himself that he is okay and never needed things like ‘kindness’, ‘caring’, ‘love’, or ‘emotional support’ (and by extension others) to begin with.

Those are the telltale markings of someone that is weak and dependent.

And he is certainly not weak or dependent. Every single bit of blood, sweat, and ‘tears’ sacrificed to becoming what he has always been meant to be, is proof of that. All his hard work over the course of decades has been to prepare himself for the opportunity in which he could, at long last, overturn what had happened before. Correct the hideous mistakes of the past and in doing so, put it behind him entirely. He had always known about this mission and what it would mean when the time came to properly enact it. It had never been a matter of ‘if’, but ‘when’ and yet… all the same, the very moment he had been given his orders during that quick meeting with the Psion superiors… something in him had frozen over completely.

A cold numbness had filled the shell of his exoskeleton, cleaving his data (a constitution of ‘self’) clean from its forced physicality and in its place attached cheap strings to maneuver his body instead as he continues down the seemingly endless hallway, one mechanical and perfectly-executed step at a time. Like clockwork, he had hesitated none in accepting the mission before turning around and leaving the minimalistic yet oddly spacious meeting room–as monochromatic and featureless as the hallways of this building–but it was all a practiced lie. A reaction sequence so ingrained that it came automatically, even as his focus fell and an odd static-riddled silence assaulted his auditory senses in the place of whatever else (if anything at all) the Psion superiors may have said.

And as he continues to walk, inching closer and closer towards the teleportation pad serving as the exit out the otherwise impenetrable building--battered and severed from completely participating in reality by that piercing static--that sense of cold numbness and vague disorientation erodes away at his convictions like an especially unsightly disease or poison. Eroding away, bit-by-bit, until it brings him to a screeeeeeching halt just before the teleportation pad, a neat and concise circle etched in the gentle glow of white light overtop the smooth grey floors. Stuck in place and unable to will himself, for the time-being, to do more than simply stare down the teleportation circle etched into the floor as it truly hits him, posture tensing even further in its hunched (unsightly) state and pale hands curling into especially tight fists at his sides, rat-like tail swishing uneasily overtop the cold floor in as a barely constrained something dangerously bubbles beneath the fragile surface in all its inscrutable and toxic glory.

He had always known this day would come.

He had always known that he would be the one to exterminate humanity and siphon the Earth’s remaining resources afterwards.

If he is to believe in such a frivolous thing… he would certainly regard it as his ‘destiny’.

But it had always seemed distant.

A thing that he would not need to concern himself with for a very long time. Something that he could neatly isolate from the rest of his mind and instead focus on literally anything else. Something he could bury with the work he had thrown himself into once he had accepted that he had been abandoned by the ones which had introduced the irrational concept of ‘love’ to him; unable to sustain ‘love’ when his inborn defects had become especially prominent to them. This mission had been a function of the distant future, but before he could even grasp the passage of time, it had elapsed; decades blurring into a single note, from then (a child) to now (in the adult phase of life, his second and final form). And now it’s here.

The Earth. Humans. George.

Maria.

A sharp and almost indiscernible pang, tail whipping off to the side where it then remains frozen, no longer daring even a tiny 'step' out of place; something he can neither grasp or comprehend in full beyond its physical impact.

After this mission, there would be no more of that. A complete closure on that chapter of his life to its fullest.

No more Earth.

No more humans.

No more trouble over the… selfish… actions of that self-absorbed human man.

Nothing of hers left any longer. Any reminders of what was or could have been will effectively be extinguished in full.

No more. Everything will be gone; wiped off the plane of existence and repurposed for a greater cause. Never to return or be experienced again by anyone else.

Complete finality. His life had been defined by this and now he would be properly disentangled from it all and finally be ‘normal’.

There is no reason not to want this. To even hesitate at all. All he had ever wanted was to be normal. And even then, there are plenty of logical reasons why humanity cannot simply be left to their own devices.

If left to their own devices, humanity would only ever waste the stolen knowledge before eventually going on to destroy themselves, courtesy of their collectively self-serving, overly audacious and determined, and short-sighted nature. If permitted to evolve to a sufficient degree in psionic prowess and technology, they could cause quite a bit of harm to the universe at large and in turn, effectively take others down with them. They are doomed as a species either way. And so, exterminating them before any of this has a chance to happen, will not only effectively spare them from the ‘suffering’ that otherwise permitting for them to continue existing would entail, but it will also put them and their planet to better use this way.

As such, if anything… exterminating them is a ‘kindness’ in a way. A kindness to humanity itself and the universe at large.

A nod to himself, almost too enthused and desperate in its motion, sharp teeth grinding from behind the flat line of his mouth ever-so-slightly while the tight fists balled at his sides clench and unclench at regular intervals.

Yes. It’s better this way. Of course. There is no reason to do anything but simply step into the teleportation circle because this is the best possible outcome to this entire mess. The only way this particular thread in his story could ever end. But, something stalls him nonetheless. Keeps him frozen to the spot. A patchworked and mismatched jigsaw of thoughts swirling from beneath his more coherent thoughts, a dangerous and unexpectedly influential undercurrent that he cannot entirely parse, disconnected as he is in his current state. Cannot entirely parse… save for perhaps one thing that comes through and loops back to his original train of thought, with an exceptionally ugly spin to it. A twist from being a support to his conviction, pride, and duty as Psion to sowing the embittered seeds of something he had not experienced in a very long time.

His entire life post-experiment… everything he has done up to this point… everything he has done throughout his life to become the seemingly infallible and invincible military commander that he is now… does it make him happy?

A sharp pang of doubt, tipped in something foreboding and dark.

Does being a cog in Psion society make him feel truly fulfilled? Or is it more akin to a distraction from the emptiness he had initially experienced many decades prior?

Is it enough to simply fulfill his duty to the Psion species, forever more?

Is he happy? Could Giegue himself say that he is happy?

……….

………………………………………

Inconsequential and irrelevant. He is a Psion.

That pang is promptly erased, forced to the back of his mind alongside anything else afflicting him, just as he had done so many times prior; the well-practiced strategy through which he had overcome his flawed beginnings. A chaotic and jumbled thing forcibly (by the ironclad strength of his renewed spurt of willpower) supplanted by pride, duty, conviction, and ultimately loyalty to the Psion species above all else. There is no longer any room for anything but that because he is a Psion. And ‘happiness’ is not an inherent function of Psions nor is it built into their predetermined purposes.

He forces himself to move a step forward, his mind clearing up and more properly reconnecting to concrete reality as he does so. One foot in the teleportation circle.

He is a Psion. And he was literally ‘born’ to serve. To support the overarching ideologies and goals of the Psion superiors by fulfilling his function as a military cog.

Another foot is promptly set down within the teleportation circle and the rest of his body with it, posture untensing and his fists uncurling into idle positions by their respective sides.

Nothing more and nothing less. He does not need anything else. He does not want anything else. He is not meant for anything else.

And that is okay. He is fine. There is nothing left inside to say otherwise because he is a Psion and Psions do not have things like 'feelings' or 'sentimentality'; only their predetermined role through which to guide themselves.

The teleportation pad’s gentle luminosity increases to a more blinding display of white, Giegue’s body slowly beginning to fade from behind its intensity.

He is a Psion. And as a Psion, he will fulfill his mission no matter what.

He disappears in a flash, little star-like twinkles of white light hanging overlong from within the teleportation circle before too fading away into nothingness.

#.peanutwriting #.giegue (mother series)#giegue #giygas #mother 1 #mother 2 #earthbound zero #earthbound beginnings #earthbound #long post /#death /#I guess kinda? because the narrative mentions it overtly in a more sorta collective context #the irony of the title is palpable but that's why I chose it lol #also couldn't think of anything better so here we go #As a spoiler (though not really for anyone that's seen my Giegue around before back in the RP scene)#Giegue is ofc the King of Denial here hahaha

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trouticecream · 4 days

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Re: Stonehenge / Changes, good & bad

From the instant reactivation had brought it back to whatever constitutes ‘consciousness’ for a Starman, it knew that something was wrong.

Be it an unlikely error, an unanticipated mismatch between new components–which, though well-integrated by its Psion’s technological expertise, ultimately reads as foreign–and old, a deliberate transfiguration into a test subject or something else entirely… something had felt oddly isolating in the strange removal of neat (necessary) little figurative rails to keep one from falling off the edge and into the inky abyss of the unlimited unknown. More than just the ability to move and think in ways it could not have even conceived of before–no better than a fish in water, unable to see the water it had been in its whole life–there was a distinct lack of extensively integrated chitter-chatter through its intricate servers, now crudely severed. A lack of identical voices of the exact programming and make that filtered through all Starman models in their respective categories, within the confines of the one for which they are created. A ‘hivemind’ connection, but one that is no more.

Had it been the result of Gregory’s repairs or had it existed before he even found the Starman Super itself? Was it a defective product that had gone unnoticed–due to the subtlety of the defect until it reared its unacceptable head?

It is difficult to tell. Nothing at this moment, by the honour of its own built-in diagnostic scans, read as irregular or incorrect so everything must be fine now at least. Or so it would like to believe. The reality of its current situation could not be any further.

Off-model thoughts and subsequent behaviours; things which are not bound by orders.

Tiny little sparks of something compelling towards subjects that capture its attention a little more… a sense of pulling… like opposing magnetic forces.

Momentary spurts of doing something other than what it was bound to do by the very directives on which it was originally founded. Not to defy Gie… –Gregory exactly. It would never do that–not its Psion anyways, others? well maybe–but like a complementary extension of that which compels it to continue following orders, even when actions which outright oppose such a thing now ‘feel’ possible. To experience more than what their nature as a machine and mere Super entailed.

Maybe even just to understand Gregory.

Now that it had some time to ‘get over’ the initial ‘shock’ of a decidedly unusual reboot… its own continued observations about its own off-model thoughts and at times (despite its best efforts) behaviours aside… it could not help honing in–this time a bit more closely with the full might of its perfectly calculating mechanical mind–on the strangeness of its Psion. Following its initial reboot, further calibrations, and a more detailed briefing on Gregory’s current objectives on Earth, the now-duo had gone on to finish dismantling the Stonehenge base with improved efficiency. Every single piece, no matter how tiny or insignificant, had been retrieved or deconstructed into manageable bits to take back (likely for Gregory to repurpose if it still knew its Psion as well as it did during the war) from the remaining bits of rubble scattered about the maze-like base to the very infrastructure serving as its metallic, sharp, and angular form. Like clockwork, the Starman Super itself had carried out its very reason for existing, and yet with an increase in the passage of time, it understood its Psion less and less. Enough that it had begun to wonder if it ever knew its Psion at all. He had given it answers the first time around, but even with an increase in its own clarity, awareness, and overall becoming more adjusted to its alterations with time, it could not entirely parse out what he meant. He had been direct, but something seemed distinctly incomprehensible about it anyways. Even more incomprehensible than the Psion’s powers.

Gregory is strange.

An anomaly by Psion standards.

An unacceptable deviation that could never stand by them like this.

Has he always been strange?

He had always seemed like any other Psion when the golden-hued robot first met him. Practical. Rational. And efficient. He never wasted time. Never made any mistakes. Never faltered or struggled. Never failed at anything.

The Invincible One.

Was it all an act? Did he manage to lie to everyone until he could not anymore? Or did something come undone in the data composition embedded in his psionic energy?

Such questions and more unpleasantly buzzed around its mind in the midst of filling up the cavity left behind in lieu of the newly-dismantled Stonehenge base. A neat and tidy process mainly facilitated by Gregory himself, if not a little unconventional. The Starman did not necessarily need to be here for this, but in the absence of competing orders with higher priorities, the loyalty of the Starman robot series dictates being here by the side of its Psion anyways. An almost comically oversized syringe, transparent though untethered by visible numerical readings on its sides and tipped with shiny grey metal via its plunger which was being telekinetically lowered by Gregory himself, needle, and tip currently pressing into an adjacent patch of snow-covered earth next to the tiny hole–central to the circle of rock formations–which had once served as the dismantled base’s entry point. The syringe itself was filled with a strangely shimmery and white-hued goopy fluid which almost seemed iridescent under the correct lighting; a substance currently being pumped into the Earth at a slowed yet steady pace. It had to be that way. A slow introduction so as to induce the desired effect or so Gregory had mentioned.

The Starman Super itself had been assigned to ‘lookout’ duties–to ensure that no one gets too close while work is being conducted–but to be honest, it does not think that Gregory really needs it. The air is oddly still; unable to fully recover from the things that have happened in the very base at the center of it all. No wildlife will approach much less the likes of humans after coming to know what being here means. Even in the aftermath of the war… it supposes that humans must still be afraid. A natural response rooted in self-preservation instinct; an invention of organic creatures, life-forms that aren’t created artificially. Something that the Starman Super itself lacks as a machine programmed to carry out the will of its Psion. And in any case, Gregory is very capable regardless. Despite his significant setbacks as a Psion, he is still very self-sufficient and thus doesn’t really need assistance. It knows that this is just an arbitrary position to give its presence here meaning and while it would ordinarily rather just be more useful, the gold-hued robot supposes that there is merit in this anyways.

Its dark visor swivels from left-to-right–unmoving in its rigid stance, feet firmly planted in the snow while tentacle-like arms rest upon either of its central sides–analyzing and assessing anything that may (or may not, in this case) be nearby, then takes a few steps off in the opposite direction before repeating the procedure with identical results; while it may not have been built to have as much power as higher rankings, it excelled at data collection and analysis at great distances after all. It has had quite a bit of time to observe and form a better opinion on Gregory, albeit one that remains nebulous due to how utterly unprecedented his way of being actually is. Something which has ultimately culminated into the very thing nagging the ‘mind’ that it supposes it now has; primarily a matter of understanding, but in particular why he did what he did with regards to the second invasion. A matter which, in the name of maintaining optimal efficiency and focus, the Starman Super decides should be promptly resolved. Even though Gregory is occupied by a very particular task, he has given off the impression of being rather amenable to answering inquiries like this and so, it just blandly pushes forward an inquiry in a robotic, mid-pitch tone with a definitive tiny quality to it despite the now-eradicated whirrs and pauses which had once permeated its speech like a virus.

“When you first repaired me, you introduced a novel concept about ‘purpose’ and ‘meaning’, but could not offer a complete answer. Only speculations.

You do not follow orders from Psion Superiors or anyone else. Only yourself. Your actions provide a net benefit to the very species we were once hoping to eliminate. And against the very definition of a prophecy itself, you survived its original prediction. An anomaly that cannot exist yet does.”

It pauses, as if to re-gather its thoughts, before pressing forward. Get to the point. A Psion’s time cannot be taken up overlong.

“By these objective facts, you have no further place among your own species. And thus, no place in their overarching goals towards the net benefit of cosmic balance at large. What motivates you to continue advancing?”

Then a more definitive end to its words. Or at least, the end, until it receives an opportunity to speak more. And so, in the time it spends awaiting an answer, the robotic entity simply stares at the Psion, the only indication that he had heard anything at all being an alert perking of off-white stout ears before promptly swiveling in its direction while it had spoken. While the work on filling the gap left behind by the Stonehenge base is not especially challenging, the Psion himself nonetheless continues staring at the injecting device with a kind of intent concentration, tail tapping on the ground a few times before he issues a response; tone as stoic as the Starman’s is robotic, but as natural-sounding as that of most organic life-forms.

“Even if I attempted to explain it to you, you would not understand it.”

Now the Psion himself pauses, and though the Starman Super can’t see it with his back to it, he frowns just a bit, displeased by his own answer. It’s the objective truth. Just as the Starman had been observing and analyzing the Psion, Gregory himself had been observing and analyzing the Starman as well. Though the foundation behind his ultimate decision to bestow free will upon the robot was, in fact, partially based in what could maybe be referred to as ‘empathy’ (and certainly out of a desire to do good, in the hopes of one day being good himself), this was also admittedly scientific curiosity after all. An experiment of his own! But, one that should ideally benefit the Starman Super itself as well, given enough time. And so, right here and now, a little more elaboration would be required. The Psion turns around, simultaneously continuing to telekinetically press down the plunger on the syringe-like instrument, to face the Starman Super, expression as blank as the robot’s itself.

“Not at this juncture in time anyways. But, perhaps in the future.

That is contingent on whether or not you will develop in a particular way. It might not mean much to you now… but ultimately, it is now your choice to make.

Just as it was mine to cease any further continuation of the war.

I developed in a particular way.

I changed.

And so, my priorities no longer align with that which guided the second invasion of Earth.”

At the mention of the war, the Starman Super almost cocks its head, an intrigued glimmer offsetting the void-like inkiness of its visor. It had intently listened to every word that the Psion had spoken, of course as it rightfully should when its Psion is addressing it, but the war held special significance to it. After all, the war was where it was last left, before awakening in a new era altogether. One moment its Psion was fully-grown and meticulously setting his elaborate machinations into motion and the next, he had somehow been shunted back into the form of a child and undoing his own efforts. One moment the Starman Super was obstructing the Chosen Ones and the next, it had awoken almost alone in a base even more ancient than the one in Stonehenge itself.

A lot had changed in what felt like a short time to it. And even though its systems had long since–almost immediately–calibrated to the changes, something else held it prisoner anyways. Stuck and unable to fully live in the new era, Gregory’s era, as opposed to what Commander Giegue had eventually been called, Giygas; defaulting to mostly automated processes and protocols to continue fulfilling its duties. It could not parse out whether or not this is beneficial. It had never been its place to do so before, but then it had already done a lot of things that a Starman would not normally do. But, perhaps even that could be reasoned to have been mitigated by the fact that it continues to rely on its Psion for answers. And so, without missing a beat, it issues another question related to another one of many constant thoughts since its awakening.

“The second war. The wars. Yes. A lot has changed. Do you think that it’s for the better?”

Gregory takes a moment to think it over, tail pensively swishing from side-to-side as he does so; like anything else, he wants to be as strategic as possible about it. Strategic in that he avoids influencing it to think in a particular way–and thus, defeating the purpose of this experiment–while also not inadvertently feeding it odd ideas; it is a Psion-made invention after all. At the core of it all, the truth is a little complicated. Some things had been nothing short of… –inconveniences. Inconveniences that required time, dedication, and genuine effort to correct. Time, dedication, and genuine effort that would have been better put towards his current objectives now. But all the same, he cannot say that he regrets this part of the second war; the aftermath that is. Difficult as it had been, he would not change it. Now that he can think clearly again, he can now see that not only was it ‘wrong’ to do this in the first place, but that it is ‘good’ that he did not succeed. The consequences would have been devastating and in the absence of them, he can now see–even if just a little bit–why she cared about this planet and its life, beyond one’s obligation to their point of origin.

The Earth certainly does not need him. The people of Earth are strong enough. But, at the very least, he can literally clean up his own mess so that they can move on until this becomes little more than a distant memory–a legend even–many millenia later. His mind made up, the Psion straightens his posture a little before pressing on.

“That is a matter of perspective. As such, the answer to your inquiry will change based upon whom you ask. But, from my perspective… I would be inclined to say ‘yes’.

Not everything fits. Not every aspect of the war’s aftermath is ideal. Not every consequence was simple or easy to deal with.

But, I would nonetheless not change the outcome.

Quite a bit would have been lost if I had succeeded. And for the fact that I did not, I will be eternally grateful to the Chosen Ones for stopping me.”

As was the case before, the gold-hued robot intently listens to the Psion’s words, picking them apart for meaning and analyzing them in a genuine effort to understand, unmoving in its posture as ever. And after a moment or two of its own contemplation… it supposes that it can understand him a little, if only from a logical perspective. Indeed, succeeding in his mission would have been a bit of a… –waste, much as the Starman is reluctant to admit to it for what it implies about the objectivity and forethought of the Psion Superiors, because everything on this planet has intrinsic value as a potential resource. Something that the Psions could have exploited if they had wanted to, but voluntarily chose not to. Somehow, the Starman Super knows that this is not what Gregory had meant–the two of them are attempting to undo structures that could have been repurposed for that exact function–but admittedly, it has no frame for understanding what he actually means. Cue another scan, back and front, of the surroundings; still no life-forms within range. There is some sense that he left out some data, but all the same, even with its still-newfound boldness, the Starman relents and opts to leave it be for now; maybe this is something that it will pick up naturally as it continues to observe not just Gregory, but the world around it as well.

That just leaves one more thought nagging at its mind. The biggest question among many that have invariably formed since its reawakening. Some had an obvious answer and thus were not vocalized. The precise sequence of events after it had failed at Stonehenge? Clearly, the Chosen Ones had succeeded in accordance with the Apple of Enlightenment’s predictions barring Commander Giegue’s death. Whether or not repairing it in such a way was an experiment on Gregory’s part? Of course it is; Gregory is a Psion after all. Things like this were simply accepted as is, even with the Starman in the state that it is, under the haze of defunct programming with it being all it has ever known prior to reawakening. Other questions were not quite ready to be posed yet. More data was needed. And perhaps a little more refinement. Maybe a little more boldness even –not that it had ever held any inkling what that meant until now. But, within the parameters of its experiences thus far and what catches its interest the most, the robot has only one remaining thing that it really wants?... yes, wants to know right now. The only question–among the complete absence of others, a void filled with the ultimate loyalty of Starman robots–that has burned into its memory banks even before it had been damaged and thus, deactivated by the Chosen Ones. It adjusts its posture a little, so that it’s more rigid and alert, before pressing together the pointed ends of its tentacle-like appendages. The first real movement, apart from what was required to fulfill its given task here, it has made the entire time it has been here.

“During the second invasion of Earth, I obeyed your orders without fail. Even when they did not seem logical or efficient. Even when the goal was not clear. Because I thought that it was beyond my limited perception as a machine. Because you are my Psion. And I will always stand by my Psion, no matter what. I knew that it was not a sanctioned attack, but I obeyed your orders anyways. Until I could no longer do so.”

A sudden… glitch brings it to a halting freeze with that final-adjacent statement. A fleeting sensation. Bitter and heavy. Like a cloth soaking up with water. Something that figuratively fries its internal circuitry.

The organic soldiers had referred to it as… ‘disappointment’. After everything it had invested in this war.

Even though it was just a Super. One of millions produced to serve under Psions. Utterly unextraordinary. Only made more than that by Psion intervention.

Even though this was its duty.

Even though it was what the Starman was literally ‘born’ to do.

Even though Commander Giegue is the sole reason it even exists at all… it still…

“So. It only seems fitting to know. Why did you do it?”

A bold inquiry, but one that comes through in a flat robotic tone nonetheless. Even though it is difficult to handle something so novel, as it continues to violently course through its otherwise unfeeling metallic body, it is still a Starman and manages to operate as inorganic soldiers should.

As for the Psion himself, he says nothing at first. He merely stares without a blink, the progress of the syringe-like machine perfectly maintained as it silently trickles down to an almost empty state, and still as a statue himself now. The original commentary, the robot’s opening questioning had struck a bit of a nerve, but he had moved past it. There’s a certain level of predictability about that. And in any case, being an anomaly is precisely what sets him apart from the Psions; a net positive he had long since reasoned. But, this was a completely different matter altogether. Nothing that he could not ultimately overcome, but something that admittedly gave him more pause than anything else the robot had issued before. There’s something exceedingly sharp in his gaze, almost inscrutable, as though he were a scientist studying a particularly intriguing specimen (and in some ways, that could literally be true here) before relenting with a barely audible sigh. In the end, this is the kind of development that he had predicted could take place in the future and now, at least in part, it had. And while he prefers to primarily focus on the future–with a minimal amount of ‘looking back’, not that there’s much to look back at beyond disjointed pieces and vague impressions–in a way, it is his responsibility to at least be clear about this; the ‘good’ thing to do, he thinks. The small alien floats up a little, so as to establish better ‘eye’ contact with the Starman, before neatly folding his arms behind his back.

“It is a little difficult to remember. My memories have been damaged quite a bit.

But.

I suppose that… I thought… that the Psion Superiors were wrong.”

A flush of bitterness and disdain, the latter of which he had not thought about in a long time much less felt this clearly, but nonetheless nothing that pierces the steely blankness of his demeanor. The hands behind his back start to grip at each other tightly in tandem with the rising tenseness; the involuntary way in which such a topic is impacting him. Nothing that stops him from continuing on. Honestly. As concisely as possible. He expects nothing; the only way to guarantee never being disappointed in anyone or anything when it comes to… ‘mushy’ things like this. But, answer honestly he will nonetheless, even if the robot does not end up understanding.

“In the entirety of the time that I have served them I have never once failed to accomplish tasks set out by them or exceed their expectations of me.

I never made any mistakes.

I never focused on anything other than developing relevant and useful skills.

I never engaged with anyone in a non-transactional way.

What I provided to Psion society was of high value.

There was nothing that I would not endure to be of use.

But the moment a… perceived ‘mistake’ occurs… all they can focus on is that singular mistake?

Ridiculous.”

He scoffs, a low insolent sound, as the ever-increasing grip on each hand reaches its peak and his tail sharply swipes off to the side. Then pauses, to recollect himself, before pressing on more neutrally. Faltering is not an option. Not in this particular situation. And certainly not for the kind of overarching endpoint he hopes to eventually achieve.

“I could not accept it. I questioned their objectivity in their assessment of me after the first invasion of Earth, and decided that I had to rectify it.

That I would rectify it, no matter what.”

As the Psion speaks, the glitch which had made its abrupt entrance within the gold-hued robot gradually subsides into little more than a gentle buzzing. It’s difficult to parse what exactly soothed it, but it had only started to subside when similar sentiments to what it had just kept in its databanks were issued. It’s difficult to parse anything to the more ‘emotional’ slant to the content of his words, the robot already at full capacity in its current ability to understand and process such things. But all the same, the final conclusion would not really change anyways it supposes. In the end, it really did not know anything about him after all. A fact that it more properly admits to itself and which in turn, propels its next inquiry forward, robotic tone tinged with a hint of bewilderment like it just couldn’t believe that anyone would just decide to do something like that, despite knowing full well that he did throughout the entire war. Another emboldened move where it should have accepted his answer as is, tentacle-like appendages falling back to its sides accordingly.

“Even if it meant defying the will of your superiors? Your very creators?”

Gregory himself readjusts his position so that it’s even more proper than before, takes an inhalation and exhalation of air as he loosens his hands, before continuing in a neutral yet definitive tone and in turn, morphing into something more authoritative.

“Yes.

Utilize your newly implemented will to consider the veracity of such a notion.

Can beings that have faltered enough to create the situation which warranted the initial attack on the Earth truly be infallible?

They miscalculated. And their solution was wasteful.

They were wrong from the very beginning.

As such, I did not fail them. They failed me.”

An abrupt yet solemn pause as, no sooner than their curt exit from his mouth, the weight of the remaining words loops back to the Psion himself and with it, a realization he had not grasped until now. He uncrosses his arms and moves them from his back and right by their respective sides before promptly floating back to the ground.

“Just as I have failed you and the remainder of my forces, irrespective of the net benefit that the superior outcome now entails.”

A halting pause. He telekinetically injects the remainder of the mysterious goopy substance into the Earth before lifting out the syringe, the small circular entrance into what was once the Stonehenge base submerged the shimmery iridescent substance in a neat little circle. Then a brief flicker of his gaze off to the side. No faltering.

“I… apologize.”

Words he has never used before. Not for something this serious. Words which have fallen into such disuse that it felt strange to even utter them at all. His gaze refocuses back onto the robot before him. But, even though they are vacuous to it, they must be said anyways. It is a part of being ‘good’, no matter how much it twists and churns his figurative stomach.

“While I do not regret this outcome, I did something unnecessary.”

As dutiful and loyal as ever, despite the glitchiness from before, the Starman Super listens. With everything that has shot through its systems, even in their expanded format now, it feels as though it had just awoken in the Mt. Itoi base anew; too frazzled and disoriented by the newfound weight of ‘will’ to really string together much coherent thoughts and guide himself by anything other than disjoined thoughts and odd sensations. Yet even so, the Starman manages to process his initial challenge to its inquiries and ultimately relents. Even though it feels a bit ‘taboo’, against the very basis for its creation to question even the likes of Psion Superiors, Gregory is right.

A fact that is further reinforced and cemented–especially as far as things like ‘sincerity’ go–by the strange expression introduced by him at the end; an expression of contrition often uttered by ‘lesser’ life-forms, but never by Psions.

Perhaps it knew this as well, deep down, but could never entertain the notion under limited will before much less express it in any meaningful way.

“With respect to your inquiry, you are correct. Logic dictates that my answer should be a ‘no’.”

Yet another pause as the reality–endorsed by the ghost of defunct programming–of just how ‘taboo’ its boldness really is sets in a little late, delayed by the ‘shock’ of the glitching experienced from before. Its databanks flit back and zero in on what Gregory had emphasized earlier about regret (or a lackthereof, in his actions now) and before it can even calculate how to next proceed, it mechanically ends up asking…

“Do you regret retrieving and repairing me?”

He had to, right?

Even though he had modified it in the first place… they… it should nonetheless know better than to do anything but stand by the side of its Psion and obey. Not to question or criticize his actions–outright demand an explanation–as it had before.

But, it couldn’t really regret it either. And as Gregory swiftly responds, clearly having already long since made up his mind about this…

“No. I have vowed that I will attempt to make decisions that I will not regret later on.

I do not want to regret what I do anymore.

Do you regret continuing to stand by my side…?”

… it seems that, even with the clipped tone of voice, he doesn’t either. The sincerity of his words cut through the air cleanly. Enough that, inexplicably so, the answer to the Psion’s own inquiry comes through almost immediately on the Starman Super’s part.

“No. I do not.”

Having completed its task, the syringe-like machine vanishes with a residue of faint white sparkles in the air, before the substance it had been injecting (or what little can be seen of it from the small circular entrance point in Stonehenge anyways) changes colour and blends with its surrounding earthy terrain, covered by snow as it is now. It’s like nothing had ever happened here to begin with and with time, this will become nothing more than a distant memory. Gregory floats back up and closer to the gold-hued robot, head briefly tilting to the side with a hint of intrigue and analysis, before rightening and turning his back to it.

“In that case, we must continue on to the next objective.”

He teleports out, clearly expecting for the Starman Super to know to follow. A cue that the robot immediately picks up on, but stalls on following through to look around the setting for a few seconds as if taking it all in for the very first time as small bits of snow begin to gently fall from now grey-ish skies. Or rather from a different… ‘perspective’ as Gregory had put it. One detached from the confines of the very war which had caused it to fall into disrepair in the first place.

For better and for worse, war is a catalyst for change.

And for better and for worse, Gregory had changed because of it.

But, not so much that the core qualities which made him an effective military commander are gone. He’s still as steeled, determined, and efficient as ever. A change of priorities had not taken that away. Rather maybe it had improved on those qualities by subsequently removing the negative influence his previous priorities, by his own admission, had had on his level headedness and more.

The Starman Super could not say that it entirely understood him and in all likeliness, it might not ever. But, the gap has lessened and if nothing else, it’s soothed the roughness with which it had been thrust from a violent war to a decidedly more peaceful aftermath. Somehow. In the end, the robot itself had also changed because of the war and not just in a physical way.

With one last glance at the peaceful–decidedly not overly still anymore–surroundings before teleporting out itself.

#.peanutwriting #earthbound #earthbound zero #earthbound beginnings #mother 1 #mother 2 #giegue #giygas #starman super #starman #earthbound au #.gregory

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trouticecream · 13 days

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Re: Stonehenge / Past Wrongdoings

Very little time had passed since Gregory managed to access the control room’s holographic data storage, but all the same, his efforts quickly yielded the desired data; data which could do this part of his mission on Earth quite a bit of good. The less of this horrible mess left behind on Earth, the safer the life-forms here will be and thus, the closer he moves towards the endpoint of becoming ‘good’. He promptly turns over his exposed wrist–a simple black outline of a diamond seemingly embedded into the off-white blue underside of his skin–and pressing it against a centralized point of the blocky control console. He has already read through and memorized the data he came for, but it certainly does not hurt to copy the entire contents of the overall information stored anyways. Especially when conducting a complete wipe is well within the more immediate ‘ballpark’ as the humans would put it; an inevitable part of dismantling this entire base correctly. That is why this kind of assurance is necessary. If he finds a time where he might need more than the information he initially sought out here, then without a credible backup, it would longer be available post-dismantlement.

A few seconds pass in the stillness of what would otherwise be perfect silence, if not for the gentle–almost indiscernible–humming sound in the background. Almost a minute of waiting for the upload to finish. He almost huffs impatiently, foot tapping twice on the ground, before remembering that the enormous quantity of data aside… this place has not been maintained in quite some time. Ever since it was damaged and shut down by the Chosen Ones… it hasn’t been the same functionally; another reason why it is better off being completely scrapped. It is simply not worth repairing–irrespective of how easy it would be for the Psion himself to do so–and it has no place here anyways. An… inexplicably… uncomfortable beat before a small charming ping! indicates that the upload has completed. Much like the Psion himself. He pulls his wrist off the console and sets out to tapping away at it anew; he has the data, he might as well wipe it now. And yet, even as he diligently and efficiently sorts through the various options through the process of wiping all data contained in this base, that distinctly invasive and uncomfortable thought from before persists.

He does not belong here. None of this technology or structures belong here. None of this should ever have happened. The moment efforts at studying the Earth and its life-forms became more invasive… the moment their lives were interfered with to an appreciable degree… the Psions had gone ‘too far’, he thinks. It is difficult to parse the correctness of actions at times… but he’s a bit more confident about this assertion.

A small pang of impatience sparks back up anew, his tail this time around, beginning to tip-tap against the metallic flooring.

Stopping the spread of PSI. That had been his original mission. The way it was meant to be accomplished was by eradicating the entire human race. And in doing so, prevent a future where humanity would grow powerful and advanced enough to not only pose a threat to Psions themselves but destroy the universe through sheer recklessness.

But, in a lot of ways, it seems like it’s just an excuse.

PSI is not that uncommon. Species more ‘primitive’ than humanity has developed it without Psion interference. And… though he cannot recall very much… he has the distinct impression that a very long time ago, distinct human groups on a series of islands with special properties utilized it.

Last few steps. Almost done with deleting all data. Just some last few steps.

And even if PSI did not develop on its own as such… is the supposed ‘situation’ he had been ordered to address, not created by the Psion species themselves in the first place? Humans were regarded as far too dangerous–reckless and ‘stupidly’ determined by perceived nature–to possess any real power. Or rather, to be ‘permitted’ to develop any further than they already have. And yet what did the Psions themselves create…?

He frowns just a bit at that, a hint of thinly veiled agitation increasing the tapping of his tail beyond its initial rate of impatience.

Gregory himself. Giygas. The Evil Power. The Nightmare.

What a… what a… what a… –bad joke.

One final tense tap–perhaps a touch too hard, but nothing that could ever damage the console anyways– and the holographic screen completely blanks out before fading into an inky darkness, never to light up again and promptly vanishes from view. He’s done now. The Psion can leave this room and on the way back, collect whatever rubble he comes across along the most direct path out as a sort of headstart on his task, before then returning to his base on Mt. Itoi; another structure that would have to be dismantled, but one that is ultimately last in the roster given how integral it is to carrying out all other cleansing operations on Earth. But, he doesn’t move. Rather, the Psion takes it upon himself to momentarily turn his back to the console so as to lean against it, gaze swept towards the ground in pensive silence while his tail comes to an abrupt yet indisputably tense pause.

A moment or two passes before he’s hit with something heavy in his chest; a deceptively shallow yet ultimately dragging sort of sensation. Disappointment… in himself. Things like this… fixating so much on things that cannot be safely changed… is very unlike him. It is very inefficient. A waste of time. It isn’t like him to get sucked into a mode of thinking like this. Or at least not since he reassembled. Cue a barely discernible sigh tinged with resignation. But, perhaps it is inevitable. Being in a place like this… it is only natural that his mind would stray off its intended course, and into the impressions associated with the functions of places like these. The small alien pushes himself off from the front of the control console and begins to make his way back at a brisk pace. Inevitable or not, there is little point to fussing too much over things like these. And ultimately, irrespective of the exact thought path taken, in the end… all this sort of thinking really amounts to, is a fact that he has already contended with long before reassembly into lived reality:

Humanity is no better or worse than any other species.

The Psions themselves are not better either.

Or at the very least, certainly not in any way significant enough to warrant that arbitrary self-appointed right to determine the fates of entire species distinct from them.

And that’s that.

For now, the best that he can do is enact the calming techniques taught to him by his adoptive human mother–where necessary–and above all else, remain focused. He might have (rightfully) failed in his last two major endeavors on Earth, but he is determined not to fail this one. Failure might not be as damning as he once thought, but there are certain tasks that matter enough that he genuinely hopes to succeed without failure-induced setbacks. His gaze begins to sweep more carefully across the floor around him and up ahead. And so, at this moment now, he needs to do the very best he can here in collecting all bits and pieces of rubble on the way out. An action which he does with great effectiveness and efficiency, utilizing telekinesis to lift anything he spots off the ground and shoving it into the diamond-shaped outline on his wrist from before, where it disappears without a trace; likely a piece of technology that doubles as a computer of sorts and a pocket dimension-type storage system. With every bit collected and cleared from the path back the frustration and disappointment from before gradually leave his body until the tenseness it had inadvertently introduced lessens to an almost negligible degree.

Almost. But, not quite.

He had not realized at first due to the unexpectedly… –distracting, effect of this place but something has always felt off about it. An effect that could not entirely be explained by what this place means and what had happened here as a result. The sense that he was being observed somehow despite not sensing the presence of any life-form other than himself here. And as he continues to pick up anything scattered across the ground, glittery bits of metal reflecting the purplish hue of the awful lighting, somehow the shadows cast seem to flicker oddly. They appear to be perfectly ordinary in a superficial way, but inexplicably so, he can tell that there’s something incorrect about them anyways. Nothing malicious necessarily, but something that nonetheless stirs a little unease in him anyways. The same kind of unease sparked by old folktales he had read a very long time ago in a major Data Centre on the Psion home-planet. The literature was only preserved for knowledge’s own sake–much of it dismissed as mere nonsense derived from a woefully incomplete perception of how the universe operates–and thus, was very rarely ever retrieved.

But, Gregory himself had done so out of curiosity and one particular story talked about how the Ancient Ones had fallen.

Ancient Ones used to be the pinnacle of prosperity, power, and technological advancement. They had everything they ever needed and did not need to resort to destroying their planet for resources.

But then… on a celebratory event dedicated to ‘honouring’ the elements and cosmos which give them power… a promising young Ancient One, to satisfy an insatiable thirst for more and more power despite her incredible abilities, attacked the planetary maintenance and protection AI at the planet’s core.

The resultant clash ripped apart the very fabric of space-time and not only damaged the planet itself beyond repair, but caused the Ancient Ones to lose their powers. In a last ditch effort to save the people which it had served up to that point and by extension, the remainder of the universe… –the AI sacrificed itself and utilized the last of its now-dwindling powers and sealed the attacking Ancient One in a place where everything decays–time, space, concepts, living-beings–until it is erased from existence entirely.

As such, she should be dead and gone now. But, evidently the ones which wrote that particular story, believed that there was a chance that against all odds, she wasn’t. That because of her incredible abilities, she instead decayed to being little more than a being of shadows; only able to interact with the world during particular events of cosmic importance, when natural barriers are sufficiently weakened, from the shadows created by objects obstructing light. ‘The Wicked Witch of the Void’

It is… difficult to believe.

Stories like that were never really true. They were either exaggerated and embellished realities, based on an incomplete understanding of the universe, or both. Sometimes they were even written not as a reflection of reality, but as a means of transmitting a particular lesson that the writer wanted consumers to derive from it.

And yet… at the same time… the stories were not disproven either. They may not have a substantive backing to their veracity, but there is no proof against them either and so, they may not necessarily be useless as sources of information. That was why he had even bothered with reading the material in the first place. Ultimately, he did not exist billions of years ago. Things might not have been anything like what they are today. The state of the universe and thus, the relevant circumstances were more than likely different. And so, measuring how ‘believable’ something is by the metrics of today, might be too flawed to give an accurate result on a series of events so old that no one alive today would know anything about it.

A pause in his steps as he reaches the room he initially found himself in. But, that’s a mystery to resolve at another point in time. Perhaps after his work on Earth is done because as it stands now, no concrete issues have arisen throughout his entire journey here. No malicious intent had even been detected. And so, while this does not mean that he should let his guard down, he can continue advancing as planned. The Psion glances up at the deceptively tiny exit above, a touch pensive in the unnatural stillness of the defunct base, before he simply levitates up and out.

#.peanutwriting #.gregory #earthbound au #earthbound zero #earthbound beginnings #earthbound #mother 1 #mother 2 #giegue #giygas #long post /

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trouticecream · 18 days

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Re: Stonehenge / Choices

Bits of warm sunlight gently reflect off glittery blankets of snow. A state of water which covers the entire ground in a moderate layer as far as the eye can see, an almost uninterrupted continuum save for several breaks provided in the form of large stone formations set in a circle; two vertically positioned ovoid forms held together by another placed horizontally overtop the others, per each individual formation. There is a distinct sense of resolute calm to the area overall, as though frozen (literally and figuratively) at a particular point in time. Perhaps… a little too resolute. Too quiet. Not even the routine sounds of nature, subtle overlapping sounds serving as mild background noise, pierce the ironclad stillness of the space. In the place of it all, rather, is a very quiet–almost impossible to catch without enhanced hearing like his own–sort of buzzing emanating from a point central to the circle of rocky formations; the entrance to a major base of operations during the second invasion, currently obscured by snow, but nonetheless making its presence known anyways.

Nothing had happened as of late. Several months had passed since the conclusion of the thwarted second invasion. But, evidently… the events that have elapsed in conjunction with the residual oddness of the setting–caused by the base of operations itself, even though it should technically be inactive–were so impactful that, even in the absence of overt physical devastation, barely any life would even dare to make any noise near it much less approach it anymore. Not now that the strangeness of the wave, which he had projected over the area back then, had worn off. The entire span of a moment is spent staring at where he instinctively knew the entrance to be, as if deliberating something, before ultimately relenting and moving a bit closer to it. The Psion bends down as a piercing and frigid wind abruptly rips through the whole area, the nearby rickety branches of winter-battered trees whipping about wildly (but never snapping, oddly enough) while Gregory himself remains unmoved. Underdressed as he is in little more than a bright yellow sweater… his form is not as soft, fragile, and vulnerable as much of the life on this planet; one of the few benefits to originating from a species that routinely conquers worlds of varying sorts across the universe.

As soon as the wind simmers down in its impromptu rampage, he extends a small hand out unfalteringly into the snow and proceeds to neatly wipe it from the entrance point into the defunct base. A small and seemingly plain-looking earthy circle with no apparent way past it. But, somehow even through the fragmented bits of memory surrounding much of both invasion attempts, he knows better. It’s like an impression or ‘muscle memory’ (if he physiologically had muscles to begin with), but on tinkering with the entrance point a little with clawed digits, suddenly the snowy setting around him vanishes and is promptly replaced with almost complete darkness. A rudimentary and earthy-looking space that would otherwise be completely engulfed in darkness, were it not for the flickering remnants of purple-ish light up ahead past the entrance space. A light which had been out for quite some time, but somehow found the strength to try at illuminating the area anew upon its creator’s return. He frowns just a bit, a touch of sharpness and maybe even some derision entering his otherwise void gaze.

What had he been thinking… making it a colour like that?

While nowadays he is a bit more open to a colour scheme other than muted neutrals… that was only directed towards more personal visual customizations. Stifling an exasperated, maybe even a touch embarrassed, sigh he slowly proceeds with walking forward, past the dingy starting point and into the smooth metal-encased hallways illuminated by fading purple light; a sense of stillness and consequent unease saturating his very being as the same faint buzzing from outside plays back at more clear intervals. Objects of utility should only ever be what they need to be, in accordance with purpose; anything else is a waste of time.

But then, he wasn’t really thinking much at the time, was he?

Is that even… ‘fair’…?

Judging by the extent of the damages done throughout the base… simple to complex, dealt by blunt force to the utilization of PSI or invented weaponry, the walls of the hallways and rooms themselves to the broken bits of various mechanical (augmented or otherwise complete robots) soldiers scattered across the floor to be forgotten and collect dust… there was no small amount of suffering dealt to others. He had always had a general idea of what happened, but details like these had been scattered to the proverbial winds; blotted out and forgotten, due to how heavily damaged he ended up being due to the corruption. Gregory stops for a moment to more closely examine the glinting remains of a soldier–likely smashed to bits by the Chosen Ones–and makes a sincere attempt at trying to think about what happened. Not what happened here exactly, but to glean more of what the Psion himself had done exactly…. only to find the effort ultimately fruitless. There’s haphazardly placed and sequenced bits and pieces set to a hazy overtone–like peering at something through especially murky waters–but ultimately torn by the many holes which pepper otherwise complete memories; perhaps even the very moments where he’s reasonably certain to have been at his absolute worst. Holes that might not ever be filled. Holes which maybe must exist by the very parameters (or almost lackthereof) which now define his existence.

Is that fair to the life-forms that he has harmed as a result of his previous actions on this planet? Is it fair for him to not have a complete or entirely reliable account of what happened? To just know the general schematics of the timeline associated with the second invasion in particular?

Gregory moves on from the rubble he had been examining and continues along his path. He has somewhere to be. The primal reason for which he had even bothered with coming here was to completely dismantle this base, retrieve all components and other discarded technologies, and reboot the original space back to its base settings; no trace of there ever having been anything more to that space. In order to do this in the most efficient way possible… he needs to retrieve some data from the primary control room; a map of this base–he doesn’t trust his memory in full–and full schematics of its build beyond his own assumptions on it, so that he can devise a plan on properly dismantling and subsequently collecting from it.

Is it fair that everyone else has to live with the full set of memories of what horrors have transpired while the Psion himself, the arbitrator of it all, does not?

And yet… against his otherwise resolute focus… something scratches at his mind anyways. A sensation which twists oddly in a mildly uncomfortable way; never painful, but not exactly easy to ignore either. It is like… an insatiable itch. Like a wound that is freshly healed as the skin overtop acclimatizes to the environment. An overall sensation which, if he had to offer an educated guess, must be some sense of… bother. He scrunches up his nose, inexplicably uncomfortable, at the notion.

Yes. It… –’bothers’ him.

It is bothersome in a way that he cannot shake.

Bothersome in a way that he’s certain he would not have thought twice about before. Small hands start to, with a faint sort of nervous energy, fidget with the hem of his sweater as he continues along his path, making sharp twists and turns through the mostly defunct hallway every so often.

Is this what it means to have some innate sense–even if only a sliver–that something is wrong? Or rather to start to develop it… even if only a little?

One last turn and he appears to reach a metal-plated deadend of a wall. Or so it seems… until the Psion ceases fidgeting and extends an arm out towards it, moving his finger over it in a peculiar pattern–one which appears to almost resemble constellations–over invisible controls. Maybe it would be more ‘correct’ to recall particular details, but it is ultimately little more than an involuntary consequence that comes with the choice to completely eradicate the very embodiment of his corruption; his very own Nightmare, one could even say. A choice that he… supposes… that he… ‘feels’... is ‘correct’ or good too. He can hardly express it very well, but in the end, power is not worth it if it puts others at that extreme a risk, irrespective of how much ‘good’ it can potentially do if redirected in the right way.

He would not take that choice back, even if he could. It was his to make. And even though there is a kernel of doubt in there somewhere–an unsightly itch that insists that maybe, because he can’t recall this properly either, it’s entirely possible that he made this choice because it was ‘easier’–about his own motivations, he supposes that it does not really matter because right now, he is trying to do what he thinks is ‘good’. The very least he can do–with clear memories to back it up or not–is remove any traces of his previous invasions on Earth so that these things no longer bother the life-forms on this planet and so that these places can just be ordinary places on Earth anew.

There is nothing ‘easy’ about this now for there is much work to complete.

A moment or two passes and slowly the metallic plating of the wall warps to form a small entry into what is finally, the control room. He hesitates none in walking straight through and making a beeline for the control panel up ahead. In contrast to the surroundings from before, the hidden room has a monochromatic color scheme–mainly a mix of pale greys and whites–with a seemingly ‘blank’ stone-like rectangle up ahead, all sharp edges and overly smooth as if it had never once seen the genuine hardships of repeated use. The control panel. One which, upon making physical contact, immediately projects up a white holographic screen spanning its length but far exceeding its height.

Gregory pulls up the sleeves of his sweater a bit before peering up at the gigantic screen with a glint of determination in otherwise dull pupils.

Time to start extracting data. It is the least that he can do for her planet.

#.peanutwriting #.gregory #earthbound au #earthbound zero #earthbound beginnings #mother 1 #mother 2 #earthbound #giegue #giygas #long post /

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trouticecream · 20 days

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What Does It Mean To Be Strong?

What does it mean to be ‘strong’?

That’s the very first question that enters his mind as small clawed fingers (almost impatiently) tap an overly smooth white-greyish console with no apparent buttons, the only indication that anything is happening at all being the way small and circular bits of white light flare up and linger around the areas touched before vanishing. His intention is to initialize a kind of extra-dimensional training space and into it, slot the very same training exercise he had done (up to a certain point) many times over prior to this moment. Many iterations of moving through an ‘obstacle course’ of sorts whereby the ‘obstacles’ in question served as the difficult terrain itself and many blank-faced silvery enemies in humanoid shapes of various sizes which would attack him in a variety of ways as well. Many iterations of ultimately falling short of the end point–due to an exceedingly low ceiling to his physical abilities–but perhaps today would be different.

The pocket space, previously a seemingly endless white, momentarily displays his input commands–in accordance with the control console wedged in the ‘middle’ of the endless nothingness–in plain black and enlarged in all directions before expanding out to engulf the area. For a moment, it seems as though the endless blankness had merely been exchanged for eternal darkness until blocky and almost digital splotches of various colours appear, splattered in particular points before reforming into components which altogether form the environment whose trials he would undergo; a would-be ascent up a rocky mountain dotted with patches of grasses, flowers, and trees. The small alien gently extends an arm out, hand outstretched and facing up, and within the span of a second, a silvery revolver-style gun appears in his hand in a flare of white light. He had always had a high level of skill in hitting targets with a high degree of accuracy under challenging circumstances; observing, predicting, and calculating ways to optimize the chances of hitting even an erratic target within an unreliable environment… had always been a strength of his. But, this exercise isn’t about that.

Gregory closes his hand around the weapon and shifts it into a position which best suits his needs. Rather, this is all a matter of bolstering his ability to even use this skill at all, by developing complementary abilities to it. Ones that do not rely on PSI. Skills that he would continue to have when all else fails, especially now that he is in a position where he cannot indiscriminately rely on his PSI to pull him out of more challenging scenarios with a sufficient degree of confidence. He stares straight ahead, dark blue voids narrowing in a focused and faintly determined way, and his posture tenses with anticipation as he runs a mental countdown until the exercise starts.

5… objectively-speaking, it is impossible for a Psion to change non-defensive characteristics like that. Ordinarily, he would not entertain things like this because of that. And yet, here he is anyways. 4… somehow, post-reassembly… something feels different about that which has always existed beyond the psionic energy which fills the otherwise empty exoskeleton that functions as his body. 3… the data which constitutes his very essence feels as though it’s experienced a fundamental shift in its mode of existence. A multi-faceted sensation which seems to almost be reaffirmed by the fact that he has experienced a permanent physical change upon exiting that little space in-between lived reality and… not; the short, almost stubby, horns growing out his head in a simple and upright design. 2… with his free hand, he reaches up to gently tap one, as if to run a cursory inspection that would somehow reveal more than what limited details he already knows about them. Psions do not have horns in their design–nor do they have any use for them–but Ancient Ones did and though most data isn’t entirely clear about this, the horns had quite a bit of significance to them beyond mere cultural connotations. The horns of Ancient Ones strongly correlated with the evolution and ascension of power; the very essence of power itself. Another tap to the pointed protrusions. 1… In that light, perhaps his horns are more than just a mark. Perhaps, today would be different; a repetitive mantra, but one that he needs on some level to avoid conceding prematurely. After all, if there is something worthwhile to the pointy additions to his head, would it not be challenging by nature?

Training Exercise Start. He starts moving ahead, as quickly as he can by foot, while silvery opponents blip into existence as if they had been there the entire time.

What does it mean to be ‘strong’...?

Expertly, he shifts his gun–efficiently and precisely—in an array of graceful motions punctuated with a shot right at each target (their heads and chests in this case). No movement wasted. No hesitation spared. No mistakes made. No matter how much they move, no matter how difficult it can be to follow the variables thrown in a dizzying array, he will calculate a means to ensure that the targets get hit. Just as he would have to under real-world scenarios that he would likely encounter on the path to becoming good… to maybe even becoming a hero, if it’s possible at all for someone like him. One, two… five gone! And he continues on down the path with great and rather practiced efficiency. Rinse. Repeat. It’s quite easy at this stage early on.

A lot of different things; contingent on time, place, subjects involved, and the way that all of these intersect at any given temporal-spatial point.

Contextual details.

In that way, there are many ways to be ‘strong’, but whether or not it matters is an entirely different matter altogether. It has a lot to do with, again, contextual details and due to the somewhat subjective nature of it, the perceptions of others and oneself.

But, he is only concerned with his own perception. And in turn, whether or not he is ‘strong’ in a context set to the tune of ‘becoming good’ and ‘heroism’. A perhaps broad goal, but one that is important to him all the same nonetheless.

A significant rise in the density of silvery targets as he obliterates the earliest (and easiest) stages of the exercise and shifts into a more median subset. So many silvery blips that they could be part of the simulated area’s own ecosystem with the way that they dot the ragged and irregular mountainous terrain. More complicated patterns of attack incoming. A charge and swipe, its arm extending like water, aimed directly at his feet from one the silvery targets charging him, a few others flanking its sides for backup. Picking up speed, whatever painfully average amount he has –especially for his stubby stature, the Psion throws himself out of the way and onto the ground, firing shots which manage to perfectly hit the critical points as he slides right past his attacker and downs the others with it.

Determination and willpower are something that he possesses. But, good and heroism requires more than just spirit. It also requires the power to manifest that determination and willpower into a series of tangible actions.

Does he have that particular kind of power? Is he ‘strong’ in the way that he needs to be? In a way that really matters here?

Dark blue voids flicker down to his arm as he pushes himself back up like a spring, without missing a beat, and continues on. As scheduled. Like every other time prior. He would not expect any less of himself. A silvery target appears right before him in a flash, but he’s almost as quick to shift his gun upwards and fire in a single motion; a shot to the head before utilizing the same weapon to smack the figure off to the side and push past. He might not have been designed for very much–his most defining ‘trait’ among the Psion species being his status as a special experiment–but, he can at least do this much. But for how long? He abruptly moves to the side and behind a particularly large rocky formation as a series of attacks come from several directions, more silvery figures jutting out from various points in a way that simply-put, he’s too slow to weave around and attack with the proficiency from before.

Psion physiology has something to it.

Very little is needed to maintain the body and there is no need to breathe or sleep. There are no specific weak points that can cause critical damage, if struck, like organs and arteries. It is impervious to biological attacks to the effect of poisons, paralytics, and disease. And it is incredibly durable; capable of surviving in exceedingly harsh environments with the ability to adapt to novel circumstances (if survived) which exceed the body’s innate ability to resist completely.

He peers out from behind his cover, the rocky formation battered slightly by the simultaneous attacks that just barely missed him, and sizes up the pattern of movements from the targets. With every step forward and towards the endpoint… the targets or ‘obstacles’ get more complicated and difficult. He had improved the way he makes use of what little physical ability he does have, so as to make the most of it, but eventually he hits that frustrating ceiling to his own immovable limitations.

In that way, it could be said that Psion physiology makes one strong, but only as far as durability is concerned. Because he is a Psion, he has effectively been spared from many unpleasant experiences that befall many life-forms with more lively bioforms… but in other ways, it’s also limited him; a limiting form by design.

Pattern identified. The Psion tightens his grip on the gun with thinly veiled anticipation as he closely observes his assailants. Opportunity coming up… right now! He takes a few shots, hitting each target right on point, before pulling himself to the top of that which had served as temporary cover and nailing the remainder. He slides off immediately after, a soft thud to the ground indicating a successful landing, before going back on the move and into a sharper ascent. A maneuver that he completes with some trepidation. The point of failure is getting comfortably close. Everything else has been routine thus far. Everything else had gone exactly as it always had in the latest runs; hardly much of an achievement. But now? he’ll be able to truly discern whether or not anything has changed in the way that it needs to for his goals.

And so, by design, he can never be strong.

He just isn’t that type of Psion.

Nonetheless, at first each wave of the silvery targets–strangely shimmery under the generated sunlight of the setting–is handled with the same ease and grace earlier on as a sort of unspoken testament to his skill with wielding such weapons and experience in how to handle such situations. But, as anticipated, not only do the targets get more numerous but they get much faster and stronger with every step taken up the sharper ascent. The lit-up endpoint–a bright blue circle levitating overhead at the very peak–is still so far away and he’s already hitting what feels like the cold and unrelenting ceiling of his subpar physical abilities.

He can only be durable and psionically-proficient.

And almost as soon as that conclusion is made… the situation rapidly jerks out of his control as the difficulty level continues to increase at a rather steep rate. No hits on him yet, but he cannot do anything but dodge a complicated assortment of swipes, charges, kicks, and more. He can do nothing, but bide his time and look for enough time between attempted strikes to return fire. Time that is rapidly running out as more targets blip into existence and the distance between Gregory himself and the older variants quickly comes to a close. Dodging ability that is rapidly becoming as obsolete as much of his psionic abilities as the speed of the still-unvanquished targets increases.

But, the significant lapse in control over his powers has virtually negated the latter and so, he can only be durable.

Only durable, but if his goals are to be met, then even that much isn’t enough.

Abruptly, the speed and complexity of the attacks towards him increases enough that, while he can follow movements at blinding speeds without an issue… he cannot react at quite the same speed and thus winds up getting his only weapon knocked cleanly out of his grasp. The silver handgun goes sailing through the air in a graceful arc and off beyond the hordes of silvery and contorted humanoid shapes making their way towards him with renewed vigour, now that he’s been disarmed. Disarmed with no hope of actually getting his weapon back. Utilizing PSI would defeat the purpose of this exercise and even if it did not… he would never be able to pick up the gun like that anyways. For better and for worse, its entire structure was designed to be completely impervious to PSI, courtesy of some ancient robot series remains he had uncovered during one of his many investigations into Ancient Ones-related matters.

And so, with no further recourse, he rather swiftly gets knocked to the ground by an especially violent swipe from the target closest to him, landing facedown with a rather hard thud. He can’t feel physical pain very much, but if he were an organism with a full set of such capabilities, then it would definitely hurt a lot. After all, a training exercise isn’t of much use if any elements of it take things ‘too easy’ when one fails. He snaps his fingers and all at once, everything freezes as though time itself has stopped.

Punching bags are durable too, but punching bags cannot be heroes. Only punching bags. Only a virtually PSI-less Psion.

How useless is that?

A black symbol appears midair–an outline of diamond surrounded by a star at each point–as the infinite blankness wipes away the frozen settings. The exercise has been halted. It was very clearly over. He could not recover his lost ‘footing’ the moment his weapon had been flung out his grasp.

How useless is a Psion without the very thing it was engineered to do?

But, the Psion himself doesn’t get up off the ground. Rather he remains firmly planted on the ground, face-down, and with an unusual statue-like stillness and silence. Nothing happens for the entire span of five minutes until the faintest of tremors pulses through the entirety of his diminutive body, the very tip of his rat-like tail sharply tapping the ground with agitation that could only be guessed at by the random passerby (if such a thing were possible at all in this particular extradimensional space). Sharp teeth grind rather tensely against the chaos of the red-hot and petulant sensation at the very core of the shaking while sharp nails dig into the emptiness beneath him, as the collective weight–previously held at bay by ironclad self-control and level-headedness–of all his previous failures seems to hit him all at once.

An illogical reaction to a predictable result.

He knew that this would happen. This was an experiment too and like any good scientist… he had noted all potential outcomes prior to initiating it. All that was left to do now was to get up and go over the data collected. To determine where he could feasibly improve and see if anything unusual had been caught, despite the lack of tangible results. And yet, on the ground he remained, as though glued to it with a single thought sequence coming through clearly amidst the chaos of his own emotions.

Why? Why… do things… never change in a good way?

Why does he always have to change in a bad way?

He defied the ‘story’ set out by fate itself.

How can he be unable to defy something so comparatively trivial?

Why can’t he be strong, in a way that matters, when he needs to be?

A few more minutes pass in relative silence, posture unchanged, before he curls both hands into fists as if to release the last of the especially nasty bits of tension before forcing himself back to his feet. He’s still a bit emotional, but calmed enough to slowly start at pulling himself together. It’s very unlike him to lose focus like this, but evidently he was more… –‘frustrated’ over this than he initially suspected. Cue a deep inhalation and exhalation of air. A temporary feeling, like mom would always say, during the worst and most overwhelming moments in time.

‘It will be okay.’

He wants to be effective, even if his limited PSI and supplementary technologies were to fail, but nothing is more ineffective than receiving a failure with anything but seeing its value as raw data. Gregory slowly begins to walk towards the discarded weapon, now a short distance away from him.

Even the heroes of many stories he had heard a… very long time ago, technically, by now… suffer failures and setbacks like this. Part of what makes them so heroic, after all, is not their raw strength but their willingness to persevere despite the overwhelming odds and darkness.

He reaches the weapon and bends over to pick it back up, firmly closing his hand around it as he does so, before using a sleeve on his free hand to dab away tiny pinpricks of wetness which had mysteriously accumulated at the corners of his eyes.

The ability to never give up.

To have hope, even when it is illogical.

Gregory himself won’t give up either. If he keeps on failing, there must be something that he has overlooked in the previous data collected, and so his next course of action should be to reassess all data (including the latest set) accumulated thus far. He moves to the control console in the center of the endless blankness and taps away at it. To see if there’s something that could prove to be of utility to improving his base condition. A beat and he vanishes in a flash from the extradimensional space.

#.peanutwriting #.gregory #don't worry this is the past --like that adjacent art thing that I did the other week he's come more to terms #with it in the present but eh I thought that it'd be fun to warm-up a bit of my writing skills with this drabble #giegue #giygas #mother 1 #earthbound beginnings #earthbound zero #mother 2 #earthbound #earthbound au #long post /

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