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What am I supposed to do about this?
There’s no point in talking now, at least not in her eyes - even back when they were both Alive it was up to Nine to fill most of the silence.
The sound of footsteps behind her is odd - it was present in most of her memories, such a bold factor that even when she was alone the echoes of someone at her heels tended to follow along after her like she was being stalked by a phantom.
It was worse than the fire.
Keep reading
He’s surprisingly quiet as he pads after her, while he’s usually content to fill the silence with chatter, he simply doesn’t know what to say. Or maybe it’s that he has too much he knows he should say, that he wants to say, but for some reason, he can’t bring himself to do so.
She makes her log, he hasn’t been keeping a manual log, the time is auto-logged, the date, but nothing more than that. Why bother? Who’s going to read it? What would he tell them? No. He has nothing to share with such a cruel, hopeless world. It has taken and taken and taken from him, he will not give to it anything he does not have to, he refuses.
And there’s Two, same as ever, making her log.
He has spent his whole life searching
For a moment of kindness.
A fleeting gentleness.
Softness that time and time again he has been denied.
C̵̭̒r̴̤̀e̸̩̎e̴͙̕ṗ̷ͅ
y̸o̷u̴'̸r̵e̴ ̵j̶u̵s̵t̸ ̸w̷a̴s̷t̴i̸n̷g̸ ̸m̷y̸ ̵t̴i̵m̸e̶.̴
Even Zinnia
Had always
Y̶o̷u̸ ̵e̷s̷p̴e̴c̴i̷a̸l̷l̸y̴ ̵n̵e̷e̴d̶ ̶t̸o̸ ̸r̷e̴m̵e̵m̸b̷e̵r̷ ̵t̸o̸ ̸h̴e̸a̴d̴ ̷t̴h̸e̵r̵e̵,̶
̸s̷e̴e̸i̵n̶g̴ ̵a̸s̶ ̷y̷o̶u̷'̷r̶e̴ ̷a̸l̶w̵a̴y̷s̴ ̵g̶e̵t̵t̴i̵n̸g̷ ̷d̶i̷s̶t̸r̶a̸c̶t̵e̶d̶ ̶b̵y̸ ̴e̴v̴e̸r̶y̶t̶h̸i̸n̷g̸!̸
They had been made to be weapons, and so had been dubbed unworthy of even something so basic as names. Even now, he was just 9, N.9. A number in a roster.
I missed--
His head lifts, just slightly, to pay mind to Two.
You.
I missed you.
He’s having trouble processing that, part of him wants to call her a liar, but he supposes she has little reason to lie to him now. Part of him wants to be angry, to yell at her anyway, to spit the words back in her face with the sort of venom only a dead man produces, but he can’t bring himself to.
Never once has he wished to be cruel to her. He was only ever like a child in a sandbox, pulling the hair of the girl he liked because he did not know any better. But no, not even that, for he hasn’t really been mean to her. He never insulted her, less like a child, more like a dog, more like a lost puppy, toddling at her heels.
He loves her. He always has.
It’s just, so, hard.
They were not made to Love.
Unconditional love is easy on the Beloved; But hard on the heart which loves.
“...I missed you too” but of course he did, he’s so obvious, he wears his soul on his sleeves, like an open book. He hates it, but he’s simple.
He’s fidgeting with his shirt again.
“...I’m sorry” his throat feels tight again but he can’t manually loosen the data up off of his server.
“...I just, and then” his knuckles, already pale, are white where they twist in black fabric.
“...And now, you’re stuck here.”
Venom builds in her throat, bubbles in her chest, hot like acid. It would be just as easy to say that he never listened to her either, but what would be the point in arguing that now? What was done was done.
and she could have been nicer about it
He’s always been like this, like some kind of expert at pulling and prying just the right things to make her want to wrap her hands around his neck. It wasn’t his fault really, it was just too difficult to stop caring.
Keep reading
“Mine is easy to manipulate. But it’s also more or less empty if I don’t.” he admits.
He isn’t certain if it’s because his data was damaged in the crash of his server to earth or if it’s just a matter of that being how he thought of the satellite at the end. Meaningless. Empty.
“Because it’s cold.” he states, tone flat, he doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t know, he hates to admit he doesn’t know anything. He’s God, omnipotent, he knows everything. Except when he doesn’t, which is often.
If he was better at understanding Two, none of this would ever have happened. But he just isn’t good at it, he takes her too plainly at face value. He sees things in too many lines of black and white, you were either Honest, open in full, quick to show your true colours, like himself. Or you were a liar, not to be trusted, something to be avoided at best and disposed of at worst, like Zinnia.
And he just couldn’t bring himself to see Two as a liar.
So in his head, she simply means what she says.
Guess I can’t keep you out.
“It’s very unlikely.”
Nothing has changed.
“Okay.”
He isn’t sure what he expected, what he hoped for. And yet, despite it all, he’s glad. Simply that she has not turned to run him through with her sword, that she turned her back first without trying to force him to leave, because even if something wonderful was waiting for him back on his home server, even if he had somewhere else to be, somewhere fun, somewhere friendly...
I would have given anything...
His throat feels like it’s being squeezed closed for a moment.
He follows after her. Footsteps out of rhythm, but only just.
Kaine--! --Two.
And he will follow her anywhere for as long as she allows
And as long as he does not have other places to explore.
And he will come back even still.
Always, in the end.
...Just to stay miserable at your side.
Just because you don’t see the point of something doesn’t make it stupid.
She wants to snap it at him, to push him back with it, but bites her tongue. Arguing like that isn’t important right now and any moment spent giving into a pissy thought is another moment where he might find an opening to…
To what?
Keep reading
Her words make his hands still against his shirt on instinct, still, it starts up again shortly.
“Why should I listen to you? You never listened to me.
Besides, you’re not Zinnia, and even if you were, I probably wouldn’t listen to him either.
I don’t have to listen to Anyone. Anymore.”
He isn’t fidgeting anymore so much as he simply has his fingers curled in his shirt for comfort.
The distant rumble makes him flinch, just a little, towards Two, like he expects her to protect him. It’s the laughability of that idea that makes the action pause, and instead he takes a half step away. He’s not worried about any potential fire consuming him, ‘he’ is still safe back on his server after all, even if this version of him dies, it won’t mean anything. How fun it is to not be a person! To know you will exist forever and ever and ever and ever so long as the piece of shit box you’re attached to remains.
As far as he’s concerned, the fire is less terrifying than Two’s rejection.
“Doesn’t matter to me, I’m not even really here. This is just an extension of me. I’m not so foolish I would never move my primary data.” he turns his head to look over his shoulder at the smoke.
“...You could change this.”
He looks at her again, he half expects to see her sword at his throat.
“...Besides, I don’t want to go back to my server.
It’s not home, and it’s cold, and it’s boring.
And, it’s...” he shifts uncomfortably.
The thought is cut off by another muffled explosion, closer this time.
It’s only Nine.
He only killed all of them.
He only killed you.
Keep reading
She’s mean and boring.
I could just leave.
He rocks back on his heels, then the tips of his toes, an idle motion, like he’s trying to see if he can get some height on her. He did it when they were alive too. His thoughts are sharp like glass, he knows he doesn’t mean them, mostly, at leas not the boring part. But it’s easier to think of himself as aloof, to try and lie to himself, than it is to actually process the honesty of himself.
He has spent a long time alone with his sorrow, he has no desire to heave it onto another uncaring ghost.
“Then it was stupid to bother putting it up.” his tone is at first amused, and then it falls flat, like he’s become tired of pretending like nothing has changed, or maybe like he’s just tired of pretending to be more than he is.
“That question is stupid too” his tone is cold, more than flat, it has an edge like the blade he was so inefficient at wielding in life. “I’m monitoring the world and scanning archives. It’s not like anyone is going to tell me I’m not allowed.”
His head turns slightly, just a little, though he never keeps his wary eyes off her. If she’s going to kill him--and he’s fine with that--He’d at least like the dignity of seeing it coming.
“...I certainly didn’t survive.” the ‘Congrats! Well done!’ is implied tonally.
He goes quiet, no longer looking around so much as he’s simply staring at the floor, he doesn’t have anywhere to tuck his hands, so he just wrings them in the end of his shirt, playing the fabric between surprisingly fragile looking fingers.
If he had anything else to say, it seems he’s deigned keep it to himself.
“I told you before, I’m a person. A human. Goro Akechi, the navigation leader of the phantom thieves.”
Akechi was starting to grow a little more confident the longer he stayed around 9. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but maybe the fact that he was a part of something that he worked so hard with would be a comforting fact?
“Black box? Data?” Goro shakes his head, and pulls his phone from his pocket, and against his better judgement, willingly presenting it to 9. The only data he had was here, and he wanted to not be seen as a threat.
“The closest thing I have to a black box and server data is my phone?” He said, unsure of himself again. Once more, his voice was shaking. It even cracked.
“I don’t..really know what else you want? I’m not any sort of mechanical…”
H u m a n?
His pupils dilate; contract
“...You’re lying...”
Oh, a phone!
He resists the urge to snatch it rudely, but only barely, mostly because the shock has gentled him. He leans back, once he has it, for a moment it seems like he might fall, but the reality of the world around them shifts, the clouds which form are a gentle purple-pink, gives him somewhere to sit while he interfaces with Akechi’s phone.
Another pile of clouds forms behind his new companion, and he motions for the man to sit should he so desire, this will only take a moment. The phone screen goes haywire, flashing through too many things at once, it heats in his hands with the work but he isn’t going to break it, he’s just downloading all the information...
...And maybe uploading something of his own, no harm no foul, but it would be a shame to lose track of his new friend once he leaves.
Like a Virus.
The thought comes again, makes him frown but only briefly.
He holds the phone out to Akechi once he’s done with it, he’s silent now, his throat feels tight, he hates that. Emotions like that, are for humans, not God.
Far from home indeed.
“My name is 9. No further unit designation: Prototype unit Nine.
When we were created we were told we were supposed to take the planet back from an invading force of aliens, and their machines. So that humanity could return from their base on an outside location--a bunker on the moon”
His expression is surprisingly passive, and he’s entertaining himself by making little stars, twirling them around his fingertips before snuffing them out on occasion only to draw up more from thin air.
“But that was a lie.
The humans are all dead. And they’ve been dead for a very long time.
There was no reason for us to ever exist at all”
He draws the stars together into one larger sphere, exhales, and watches it extinguish.
“...The place you are now is my home memory server.” he explains.
“I think it looks better like this, but if I deconstructed the changes, it would be quite boring”
And very much in ruins. Charred; empty.
“The only dead person here is me.” I am even less real now than I was then, isn’t that funny? Isn’t that fucking hilarious?
“YoRHa? Androids? Resistance?” Goro’s mind is swimming, trying to sort out the words being said to him. What..did any of that mean? Well..He knew what an android was, having locked himself away he had plenty of time to catch up with some science fiction.
And then the creature speaking to him appeared, materialized from nothing, scaring the poor human trapped now in his domain. Akechi backs off, more on instinct than of any ill will. He was a shut in all of his life, and now he was here…with….that thing?
A God worth dying for.
The flames pull Akechi’s attention from the android, upward to what he had created. It was strangely…something put him at ease? If only for a moment. The light died out, and Goro has no choice but to look at the man in front of him again.
Someone small, with a comforting voice. He wasn’t yelling, which was enough for hermit to relax just a bit more, though he still was cautious. Absently, he touched his face and for the first time he realized something very important.
He was in his civilian clothes.
He could not summon his persona.
He was on his own.
“No, I’m not a part of the resistance.” He finally answers. “I’m a part of the phantom thieves…which I guess could sort of be considered a resistance? Fighting against corrupt and evil adults to save lives…But…”
Akechi pauses, watching as the unit before him created a copy of his jacket, in black.
“I think I’m a long way from home….I feel I may even be in heaven.”
Or perhaps, hell.
This is interesting, and confusing, Akechi keeps saying things and none of them really make sense. But that isn’t a bad thing, it’s new, something to unravel, a little puzzle.
“Phantom...Thieves” he raises a hand again, immediately the space in front of him is alive, looks like a sort of projection of a computer screen, it would look reversed from where Akechi is but it’s still visible, lines of text and confined within the boxed outline of the ‘screen’.
9′s fingers are clever, well practiced, scrolling too-quickly through boxes and lines of long text.
“...I don’t have any Data on that” but that isn’t too strange, his connection to the outside world is flimsy, he only has information from servers he discovers and cleans out, and that’s a slow, slow process. He waves a hand and the screen disappears.
Corrupt and evil adults?
He moves closer, too close really, 9 has no sense of personal space and it’s only gotten worse with isolation, he’s inspecting Akechi’s face, walks a circle around him like a curious dog, and then takes a step back again.
“I can’t connect to your black box or internal server data.” he finally muses.
“So maybe you really are dead.”
That said, 9 isn’t stupid, he’s actually incredibly clever.
“But I also can’t access your data here.” he waves a hand, as if in effort to change the being in front of him into something else, to twist his code into something different.
“...What are you?” he asks again.
“And why is your data encrypted like that, why can’t I access it?” there’s an edge of irritated frustration to his voice.
Of course, Akechi is very much human; there’s no data to access. But even all the cleverness in the world isn’t going to make 9 jump to the conclusion that Akechi is a member of a species that, by all means, is extinct here.
Akechi found himself immersed in darkness, unsure of where he was. Was this even a place?
Was he even still alive? Did it matter?
He wandered aimlessly, walking for what felt like miles, hours, years. But in reality, it was likely that he was only walking in circles. The sensory deprivation made it hard to realize anything about where he was going. Going nowhere at all.
The darkness starts to come to life, and Hermit’s attention is immediately fixated on the gentle, growing light. The space-like area he soon found himself in was disorientating, he was flying, but standing steady and solid. Oh god, he felt nauseated.
And then a voice spoke. Someone, or something was speaking.
Was…was this god?
“Uh?” Akechi stammered over his words, hugging himself a bit as he tried to adjust his jacket. “I’m..Goro Akechi. I’m a….person?”
His tone wavers, he was unsure, nervous of this confrontation.
“Are you god?”
It’s funny, watching the figure wander. Is this android--and he does assume Akechi is an android, for all the humans of his world are long dead--so stupid that it can’t map out the fact that it’s wandering in circles?
I’m a...Person?
He scoffs to himself, though it’s unheard in the space around Akechi.
“A useless answer.
Are you a Machine?
Or an Android?
YoRHa?
Or Resistance?”
When he appears it’s not as dramatic as it could be, he simply flickers into existence like a program opening on a screen, one moment not there, and then present. He’s small, no more than five feet exactly, with slightly messy hair that is for the most part white as starlight, save for a streak or two here and there of black like spilled ink. The eyes that peer out at Akechi are strange ones, white pupils, lined in a thin ring of crimson, but the iris itself is palest blue.
He’s dressed simply, black T-shirt, black shorts that do not reach even to his knees, black knee high socks, black combat boots, part of him had wanted to give himself flashier clothing but he couldn’t think of anything good.
Are you God?
Ah, yes.
A hand raises, pointer finger extended to draw a lazy circle above his own head, as though simply carving reality into so much light; the halo he’s created spins lazily above him.
“I consider myself a God worth dying for.”
The halo goes up in flames, burns away until the light is so much ashen dark, and then it simply crumbles away.
“You must be resistance, right?
The YoRHa aren’t allowed to have names.
But you have one.”
Despite his height, he’s clearly an adult, his voice, soft, only loud enough to be heard, is surprisingly mellow, perhaps surprisingly deep, there is something to it at the edges.
Sad.
He cocks his head then, moving slightly closer, inspecting Akechi’s jacket.
He doesn’t say anything about it, but the artificial reality around him shimmers, he’s copied the article of clothing for himself, his own, however, is a dark black. He lets it hang heavily on his shoulders, inspecting the sleeves.
Day one
Day two
Day two thousand five hundred fifty… three?
It was something like that, anyways.
Keeping track of the days didn’t serve any true purpose - no one was coming, there was nothing to wait for. If anything it was just something tangible to observe, some small stability. She remembered where all the clocks in the lab had been, so they were there to watch - time still passed in digital space, or was logged at least, so it seemed like she might as well keep an eye on it.
There was nothing else to do.
This server contained years of memories within it, but seeing as her life was spent in the same small orbital base, there wasn’t much substance to it. She had explored every inch of it, then again, then again, and yes - it was … home. Nothing more than that.
Keep reading
Ah yes.
Suddenly.
He remembers.
It has been a long, long time. And yet her face is as clear, as crisp, in his memory as the day she killed him.
As the day I killed her.
The day they murdered one another. Who has time to play the blame game? He’s played that one a million times with himself, it’s become inane. And unless someone comes up with some new rules for it, he doesn’t foresee it becoming more interesting any time soon.
Her firewall is adorable, is the best way to describe it.
He doesn’t possess the skill of the 9-S unit when it comes to hacking, no no, that’s so refined, that anyone should live up to it was unlikely, but he is still 9, is still the first; origin, the crux of what would become that unit. And he’s had all the time in the world to learn how to manipulate data space to his desires, it’s not his space, but it’s such a cute, clumsy little firewall that cracking it is less a challenge and more a fun little game.
How sweet. He thinks, and it is a bitter thought, Finally willing to play, Two?
Part of him desires to be cruel to her. It is not a small part of him either, it’s a shame, how quickly his emotions turn to anger, was he always like this? He doesn’t think so, but a long time ago, something snapped, some space stations got burned, some people died, the past is immutable, but it changes those who lived it, not always for the better.
Well, in any case, being angry is much easier, and much less painful, than being sad. And he has spent plenty of time being sad. At least the anger sometimes feels productive rather than simply heavy.
His movements are level, easygoing, mostly, there is some tension here and there, he reached out to rap upon the firewall with the backs of his knuckles, it stings a little. Which is normal, it’s supposed to keep things out, he resists the urge to make another internal virus joke.
I see you’ve graduated to physical walls to accent your emotional ones.
He doesn’t say that either.
“Your firewalls leave something to be desired” he muses instead, his tone almost sing-song in its nature. Like friends playing a fun little game.
“Though I suppose that doesn’t matter, when you can just run things through”
She’s armed and he knows it, he doesn’t need to see her to know it, and even if he did, he saw the sword before the wall went up. He wonders if she’ll simply cut him down when he brings the wall down, if she tries he won’t be able to stop her. He doesn’t even plan on arming himself, it would be completely pointless, in his personal server he would stand a chance, but she’s already proven herself to be the superior combat model. His own talents, he thinks, are much more malicious in nature, always poking holes in places he doesn’t belong.
A hand raises, interfacing with the wall is easy, and it comes down in a slow flicker of pixelation and access granted alerts.
Even now, he can feel the familiar spark of anger rising in his chest.
It feels a lot like fire.
Once the wall is down, he doesn’t move forward any further, if she’s going to kill him he hardly feels the need to run into her sword, he has some scrap of dignity left to preserve. Or he likes to think he does anyway.
He allows his eyes to find her own, cherry red against dawn blue.
The smile he wears now, is not so friendly as the ones he wore in the past.
If anything, it’s just resigned.
It would have been easier to leave, it’s true, and yet, he can think of nothing more not boring than dying at her hands again. Of course it wouldn’t really kill him, ‘he’ is still back in his own server. But that’s almost more delightful, maybe if she stabs him, he can just keep coming back again, and again, and again.
Is that what humans called ‘Heaven’?
Well. He certainly has nothing better to consider as such.
So it would simply have to do.
While he technically has total control over the server he’s confined in, and has picked through the satellite archives about a million times, these things only go so far.
Boring.
It’s boring.
He’s bored.
He can reach out to other servers too, but it’s a slow, painstaking process that relies on them even being close enough to jump to, further ones require multiple steps: jump to this satellite debris, jump to that dead android’s black box, jump to that machine, jump to that interface. It’s a slow spread, aching, like a virus. That actually isn’t a bad name for him, he rather thinks himself one, a Virus, he jumps to new things, he devours the information within, he moves on. Well, technically ‘He’ remains in his server but, part of him extends out, and that too, he muses, is rather viral.
Today is boring.
He had a good stint of luck in finding a few nearby bits of server debris to pick apart for info but a lot of it was pieces of archives he already has downloaded and memorized, and that, that makes him pissy, like a child demanding a new toy.
[Outside the debris, a nearby machine lifeform slowly begins to heat from the core outwards, and then, it explodes into so many shards of rust and metal.]
Well, that was amusing for a moment. Now what?
Ping...
Oh? There’s another server nearby, he can juuust reach out and touch. It takes a few moments, a good thirty seconds even, it’s pretty distant, if there was anything between it and this debris he could hop to first he would but...
Once he’s fully downloaded this disposable portion of his data into the server, he figures it’s time to look around. The eyes of his hacking-space avatar flutter open,
White.
So white.
Somehow this
Looks so...
Familiar...
His avatar sparks; static at the edges in the momentary emotional turmoil but it quickly settles. In any case, he proceeds slowly. Best clean what info this server has out and then leave.
It’s hard to say how people end up here;
For someone as tech-savvy as Hermit, maybe Mementos simply led him here because it seemed right. Or maybe Mementos wasn’t involved at all, a stray program, stray magic. A million different reasons. The How and Why don’t really matter. The point is...
...Someone is in His Space!
It’s Showtime!
Or, something like that? Actually, he’s wholly unprepared for this. So at first, the server is just, dark. Well, what’s the point in making new connections if you don’t even make an impression on them?
Slowly; The darkness comes alive, distant at first, the gentle flame of stars. He knows stars, he spent his life staring, and staring, and staring, at stars. And slowly, the black void becomes brighter, hues of blues and purples, less like real space and more the way humans imagine it, cerulean and lilac hued, distant pinks. It’s really very beautiful.
There doesn’t appear to be any ground, but it’s fine to walk on, it’s not real after all. This space is digital, walk or sit or stand or what have, it’s all the same to him.
And for all of that, the lights, the star that shoots with a brilliant tail of gold across the conceptual sky, he doesn’t actually get close. He’s hidden himself in the data of this server, uncertain of this stranger’s intentions, and lacking in the social grace to know any better.
Despite this, his voice resounds, soft, everywhere, and nowhere at all. It seems to echo around each star, each twirling planet. Really it’s quite dramatic.
“Who are you?...”
The question is simple, almost accusatory in its tone.
“...What are you?”
PROTOTYPE TWO
&
PROTOTYPE NINE
[Penned by Toobs]
&
[Penned by Nines]
OF YOKO TARO’s
“PROJECT YORHA”
Indie x Semi-Sel x 18+ x 10+ years of RP experience. x Crossover friendly x oc Friendly
vaporwave
yousharknotpass
blakekathryn
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