synthetic machinery is all i am and all i will ever be

He waits without question, standing at attention on the stone, hands clasped between each other, almost perfectly still. Like a robot, waiting for instructions; a program without an execution.

He does not dare to move even as hooves echo from nowhere on the stone floor—at first, he assumes the sound is sourceless, but quickly corrects himself at the sight of the hooded figure rounding the corner.

It is unclear whether this "Collector" simply went unnoticed or manifested from thin air... he thinks, mind always active even when his body is at a standstill, only for his train of thought to trail off as the Collector addresses him.

Praise. For a moment, it is all the pangolin can think of, cold logic cast aside for a brief second to bask in the warmth of a compliment. Although he shows no movement other than to tilt his head up to meet the pinprick eyes hidden in the hood with his own, he feels like he could travel the length of the caves and back if he were only to receive such a compliment again.

At last, with an incline of his head, he speaks. "This one is deeply flattered by your praise." he says, head bobbing a little in the very beginnings of a bow. Truly, he is no more than a creature of thought, but he strives to be the kind of creature that others would find—well, useful.

His designation comes easily enough to him; one assigned at birth, one that described him perfectly. Child—but such a name is now worn with time and outdated. The thought of introducing himself with such an ill-fitting name to someone so grand simply does not connect. It's jarring to even consider.

So instead, he continues, "This one does not have a designation. It is seeking both a title, and a purpose."

What is he to do with his life? Surely it would be a waste of his existence if he was simply a wanderer for the rest of time.

But, of course, he is well aware that this being does not grant boons for free. It is a trade, a system as old as time, and even as he is giving the proposal, he is considering what he has of worth in the back of his mind. No belongings, and merely fledgling magic, but—

—his monotone gains the very hint of something fervent. "This one would be willing to do anything for this request."

Anything for praise. Anything for a purpose.

RE: synthetic machinery is all i am and all i will ever be - Game Master Dark - Dec 07 2020

There was silence, for a soft beat--the heartbeat pause of nothing, between one thud of a blood-pulsing heart and the next. A pause, in which the horned head canted ever-so-slightly; in which the crimson pinprick eyes studied the mask-faced Child.

Then came the quiet sigh: a little exhale, followed by the clicking of hooves as the Collector stepped closer. A sweep of robe, and suddenly, in one hand--from nowhere--was a chair, all black wood and silver filigree. This was set before him and then he sat, a rustle of faded cloak, a folding of one hooved leg across the other.

Clawed hands clasped across his lap as he studied the pangolin.

The Collector's question came smooth, yes, but without subtext: nothing to read between the lines, here, no devious hints lurking under the current of the surface of these words. Instead it was almost plaintive, a curiosity, a distant, almost somber thought.

"Tell me, child; why?"

@Child

RE: synthetic machinery is all i am and all i will ever be - Child - Dec 27 2020

For once, the perfectly tuned gears of his mind wind to a halt. The machine of cold logic in his mind winds to a halt; the question like a wrench in the works.

Why?

He is a creature of what and how—when and where. Why is as distant as the land is to a fish; never has he considered the question of why.

Never has he been asked to consider the question of why.

But he is a servant; dutiful like clockwork, and as the Collector sits before him, perfectly still and perfectly poised in a chair of unknown origin, he sits as well to mimic him, and thinks.

Why does he seek this purpose? Why does he seek a title to be given? His old title is ill-fitting, yes, and that brings the first answer, because this one's old name does not fit, but his second answer remains beyond his grasp. The question eludes him. Why, why, why.

The pangolin seems lost in thought, thoughts and body language slowing into something calm. He tugs at the question with the same measured pace as he would approach any other question.

He doesn't understand, he realizes, the concept of things such as motive. He can put together a chain of cause and effect, observe an event or an object until he is satisfied, but he realizes he does not understand... emotion. The complexity of inner thought and feeling that weaves together into something resembling a push, a want, a need—it feels distant.

Why, then, does he push for his own purpose? Why does he need a purpose? Why is there this want so deep in his bones?

More thinking. The moments pass in silence, the pangolin unthinking of anything beyond his own little mind, attention diverted to the question.

He considers, then, the thought of a life without purpose. The thought makes something unpleasant well up in his chest; after a beat, he identifies the feeling as despair. Sadness—a kind of deep aching at the thought of such a barren life.

And that is the point from which he begins to speak. "This one does not know what its life would be without a purpose. What is there to work for without something to work towards? It... is sad, without purpose."

Even just seeking purpose is enough of a goal for himself. But without that, where would he be...?

Would anyone know his name? Would anyone know who he was?

And that, he begins to realize, is the crux of the matter. Slowly, and then all at once, the pieces he's puzzled out seem to click into place. He realizes—no, he knows, he knows now...

"This one has been alone for many cycles. Sleeping, in its shell. It does not know how long, but it has not seen life for a long time. It..."

His sleep was dreamless in a way that made it feel like an eternity. He had slept when he was younger, when his body was small and still developing, still vulnerable, and when he came out of his gemstone, everything was different. Even his own body was bigger and covered with more scales and it still felt different, even after a while of poking and prodding and looking at his own figure in Polaris' river.

And he is... scared. He's scared that his sleep will happen again. He's scared that one day, he will hibernate and he will never wake up. He's scared of the thought of simply passing away, without mark nor memory to his presence.

"...this one searches for others, and for purpose, because it does not want to be forgotten."

He has not laid himself so bare before, but it feels... right. To expose himself, to put himself at the mercy of another; just to be notable and praised, so that others will remember him.

Just for that, just for a purpose, just for one to love, he would do anything.

RE: synthetic machinery is all i am and all i will ever be - Game Master Dark - Dec 27 2020

The Collector did not rush to answer. One hand clasped over the other on his lap. The right leg, folded over the left, bobbed as he sat there--head still tilted to one side in thought.

"Purpose," he began at last, his tone measured, somber, "is not something that can be so easily given. A task--a list of tasks--those things can be given. But purpose is something you have to find for yourself. Perhaps, however, I can help you. And all my exchanges, of course, incur a price--but for once, I will offer to discuss that after. First--I would like to tell you a story. Maybe in this tale, you will find some hint--a starting place, hmm?--for your 'purpose.' What do you say?"

The tiny, glowing red eyes studied this Child, this one speaking of itself in such a strange and distant manner. "Tragedy" was written all over its every odd little scale, and "potential" sang a bittersweet and failing song.

@Child

RE: synthetic machinery is all i am and all i will ever be - Child - Dec 27 2020

He sits before the Collector with all the attentive rapture of a worshipper at a sermon. He does not seek to break the solemn silence that stretches between the two; nor does he grow uncomfortable or impatient towards it. He simply waits, and watches, blank mask tilted upwards towards the void of the Collector's hood.

Not even a breath breaks the quiet.

At last, the Collector speaks, and he takes in every word. Listens, to the lessons he promises to impart—listens to the promise of help, if only for a price, the very thought enough to make his heart rise in his chest.

Isn't everything supposed to have a price? That is how the world works in his eyes; or, at least, he would never accept something without offering to pay for it in return, whether in something material or, more likely, in a favor. He lives to serve—what value do gifts and rewards have to him if they are not earned?

Yes, he will have to figure out his purpose, his duty for himself. But to not be alone in doing so...

...that is worth whatever price the Collector imparts, he decides.

And to listen to a story is not a bad first task to be given, as well. He is not one for the creative arts, but... he is willing to listen, to whatever advice the Collector is attempting to give him.

After all, he's not come this far simply to back out now. Why would he?

He bobs his head in a nod, the mask falling and rising softly with his agreement. "This one is ready to listen," he tells the Collector, gaze flicking back upwards to the trader's own shadow of a hood without hesitation.

RE: synthetic machinery is all i am and all i will ever be - Game Master Dark - Dec 28 2020

He did not speak, straightaway. Instead, hand delved into cloak again and again, and each time came out with something impossibly large. His movements lacked the theatrical flourish they so often had: instead, they were measured, even somber.

A small, black cushioned wooden stool, filigreed with silver and matching his chair, was set a few feet from him. A small and matching table was set between them. A worn silver teapot, still steaming hot; a saucer, and a teacup.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, there was no cream, nor sugar; the Collector took his black. "Let it cool," he suggested in a murmur, pouring a thin layer of tea atop the saucer he'd left on the table. He then leaned down, and attempted to simply pick the Child up, and set it on the cushioned seat, before retaking his own place in his chair.

Only then--with steaming teacup neatly in one hand, clawed pinky finger tilted skyward, one hoofed leg crossed over the other--did the Collector begin.

"Once upon a time, there was nothing: only the worlds, and they were barren. They were rock, and air; water, and sometimes, fire." He spoke slowly, carefully choosing each word, his crooningly resonant voice settling into a smooth speaking rhythm. "One day--many years ago--each began to come to life. Or--perhaps more accurately, to become aware of its own existence."

"The wind knew itself to be free, to go here and there, to blow powerfully across the water--but it could harm very little. But it was freedom, and it thought its way was best. The earth found itself steady, strong, unchanging; little could destroy it, but it could hardly move. It was eternal, and it thought its way was best." The Collector shifted in his chair just a little, and blew on the cup of tea. "There was fire--and understand, there was little to burn in those days, and so the flames took what air it could, and what rock it could melt. And fire was fierce, and untamed, and above all else it was like something alive; it spread itself and fought to live, popping up here and there despite one being extinguished. It was warmth and destruction; it could sustain life if it chose, but it could destroy it, too. And it was free, but it had to destroy to survive. And this, it imagined, was the future: the way of things as they should be, in balance. And it thought its way was best." He took, here, a slow sip of the tea, pinky tilting. He swallowed, and lowered the cup. "Lastly there was water: powerful in its own right, though confined to the deeper places; it could wear away the rock, but the winds pushed it to and fro. Still, it could flow with the changes of time and terrain, never to be destroyed; it could be evaporated by heat or air, and would always fall again into its former shape. It was ever-changing, yet always the same, and water thought its way was best."

The Collector shifted in his place, studying the Child for a moment, the way it sat hardly moving, attentive, almost empty. And he continued, his tone betraying nothing of what he thought of this. "In time, the earth, the air and fire, the water; they all fell to fighting over whose way was best: for each, you see, thought it was their own. They could not always fight directly. Water would wipe out flame and anyway, the air could only gradually wear down stone; the rock could fight little at all. Fire, being vibrant as life, struck upon it first: fire would make an army, a proxy to fight in its stead. Little flame creatures, to spread across the worlds and prove that its way was best, destroying what it found to survive. The others quickly took notice, and began to form armies of their own. Where fire was chaotic, destructive, and stubborn, the armies of Rock were unchanging, crystalline, and--though beautiful to see--never free. They were steady, but stuck in a set form, moving a set way, forever. And fire was weak in that it required something to destroy in order even to survive." The tea raised again; another sip dipped between pointed fangs that glinted in the dim light beneath the hood. "So Earth made little creatures of stone and gem, and fire sent out armies of flame. The Air formed spirits, things of gas and wind. And water formed beings of liquid and ice, to slosh about and get into every crack and shatter earth and put out fire where it could."

"The worlds became full of their armies, you see. Little men of water, creating villages, and cities; creatures of fire sweeping over them, destroying all they'd made. Marching armies of earth crushing through the sky-ships of the creatures of air. Again and again, the little people, all the creatures, would try to build a world--only to be struck down by the others. But, you see, the unexpected happened. The creations had feelings; they had thoughts. They were beings in their own right. I cannot describe to you the numbers, child. The numbers that suffered; the numbers that died. And each of these creatures, these little people, merely served the purpose granted to it by its creator: to be rigid rock, or destructive fire, or resilient water, or free-spirited air."

The Collector gestured outward with his teacup, sighing. "But the elements cared nothing for the toy soldiers they'd created. What care did Rock itself have for a few clay men that were cut in half? Why should Fire concern itself with a few errant flames that flickered and died, when it was winning the war with a thousand other conflagrations? No; the life each had shaped was a means to an end, and nothing more. And so the war went on for eons, with death, and pain, and destruction, and there never was a winner. Families of clay-men would be torn apart by creatures of ice. Villages of water would be swept away by an army of air. And so on, and so on; in cycles, through the ages. Perhaps every now and then, a few rebelled; but what hope did they stand against the massive machine of destruction? None; they were meaningless, and swept away without thought. The cycle continued, with or without them. Now tell me," the Collector said, pausing to take a final sip of tea, before setting down his cup: "What do you think of this story?"

He was patient; the creature seemed well-spoken enough to understand the words, at least. But the implications? If there was a metaphor, behind it--a lesson, or a specific warning--the Collector did not say. He waited for the child to form its own conclusion, and he waited.

@Child

RE: synthetic machinery is all i am and all i will ever be - Child - Jan 06 2021

His eyes widen slightly as he takes in every item the Collector produces, noting their details down with the methodical nature of an archivist. They appear to have been impeccably crafted, not a curve of their shared silver filigree out of place. There's a stool, to match the Collector's chair. A table, to match the stool—a rounded pot of the same silver as the set, weighty in his hand, something unknown sloshing within, and two containers to presumably hold this liquid, one far more shallow than the other.

The creature lingers, for a short moment, on the strangeness of the Collector's cloak. It's obviously affected by some sort of space-altering magic. The chair itself is many times the size of what the cloak would be able to normally hold. How big is it really inside, then? Were he to investigate it, could he pass into that storage space? Or, an alternative theory: perhaps it links two spaces together. A wearable portal instead of a portable space.

...maybe there could be a way to accomplish this for himself? It would be better for his data to experience such a phenomenon first-hand.

His thoughts are interrupted by the Collector reaching forward and grabbing him beneath the arms. He finds himself lifted, placed, quite gently, on the cushion of the stool. He's surprised by the gesture, but doesn't mind the touch; nor the words that follow, and the pangolin ceases his rumination for the moment, recognizing the beginning of a story.

And what a story it is. Even if the Collector had not warned him that the strange liquid was hot, he would have refrained from the flattened dish anyway, caught up in this new knowledge, and the question following it.

There are thoughts brewing behind the pangolin's eyes, concealed by his mask, as he leans gently forward and takes a testing sip of the liquid before him. Still hot, almost to the point of burning, and he makes a note of that as his long tongue recedes from the drink. It has a plant's taste, slightly bitter, he notes. Interesting.

As for the story itself…

He clasps his claws together in careful thought. It is a fascinating story, of course, but he gets the feeling that there is something more behind the Collector's question. Something searching. "It is… thought-provoking."

He focuses most clearly on those parting words, attempting to compress the story down into something with meaning. The cycle continued, with or without them.

The soldiers of the elements—they were small. Unable to bring change to their cycle. They could build—had built, entire villages, more than the pangolin had ever seen in current times—but it would be swept away. Each little being, so tiny, served its purpose, or did not, but did not have a bearing on the whole.

It is a thought that is… awe-inspiring. The thought that there are things bigger than him. The thought that there will always be things bigger than him. In the end, the orb-light above him will still flicker on and off, on a timer of its own accord. The plants will still grow, and the crystals in Polaris will still glow.

But what does this have to do with his own purpose? His lack of one? Surely, there is a hint in this story, is there not?

He sits, and ponders this quietly, and takes another sip of the liquid before him. Slightly cooler, now. He finds himself reflecting slightly on the taste as he sits.

Perhaps he was created with a purpose, then. Perhaps he was not. But… did it matter, then, if he found a purpose?

...he is lonely, he knows that. He does not want to be alone. He does not want to be forgotten, and purpose, he had figured, would serve him towards that end. Someone directing him, someone commanding him, would mean that they would not forget him.

But—but the story… fire and air and water and earth cared little for those they commanded.

What was to say he wouldn't turn out the same way? What was to say—what was to say anyone would care about him?

And that is a sobering thought. A sad one, even, and he stares down at his reflection in the little puddle of strange liquid and sees a stone mask reflected back. Impassive. Unseeing. Imperfect.

"The elements did not care about those they commanded," he says, flatly. The words a statement known to be true. "They only cared for the cycle, which the little beings could not influence." And this, too, he knows to be true.

He does not want to be forgotten. There are many things, bigger than him, things that will persist long, long after he is gone, when that inevitable day comes. These are things that he cannot influence. Things that he is simply too small to influence, however such.

He does not know… if anyone will care for him. Does not know if anyone could care for him, as deeply as he wants.

Serving someone... serving someone is what he wants, more than anything. To have someone who could command him; to give him purpose, who would think of him when they wanted something done. He wants to be useful. He wants to be loved.

...he wants to be loved.

And so he answers the Collector's question with a question of his own. "Did the little beings… did anyone care about them?"

RE: synthetic machinery is all i am and all i will ever be - Game Master Dark - Jan 07 2021

The Collector waited, waited, waited. Patient, eternally so, whilst the Child considered all that he had said.

And when it began, at last, to speak: he listened. Thought-provoking. He smirked a little, beneath his hood, mirthlessly. A soft exhale of agreement--amusement--escaped him.

The elements did not care... Did anyone care?

His hand rose slightly, claws picking delicately at a bit of lint stuck on his black cloak. He flicked it away, contemplating, then looked to Child and spoke. "No. No one cared. Ahh, but they told themselves, from time to time, that some cared for one another; but these bonds were never permanent. They fought, they reproduced, they died; they served their purpose or they did not but if you asked me, I could not name a single one of those millions that has come and gone." Palms lifted, held outward, and the Collector sighed.

"I tell you this tale, little one, that I may be honest with you. I am a dealer, a trader, an exchanger: but I never offer in trade something that I do not have. And purpose... What purpose is there for you in a world where you are a little clay creature, formed faulty and later discarded, forgotten..? No: I won't lie to you and offer that in trade. Because I don't have it. I can't give you purpose."

His head tilted a tad, crimson eyes unblinking as he studied the pangolin.

"As I say, I can offer you tasks. I can give you little things to do, things that may help you find some imagined purpose of your own but it will, ultimately, be meaningless." The palms again spread, as if to indicate helplessness on this topic, claws tipping skyward. "In the interest of being an honest businessman, I am forthcoming about this. Don't say I didn't warn you."

@Child