RE: Cloudsea
06-15-2017, 11:13 PM
(This post was last modified: 06-15-2017, 11:14 PM by NotABear.)
"That's ridiculous! The concept of an afterlife is, as far as we know, largely a literary concept given that the unknown lay beyond the veil of death and- o-oh."
They look up at you, strapped down into their chair, at a small table in a room enclosed only by the ever-stretching walls of the void. You regard them with disconnected interest. Barely a formed thought, much less a character. Function, but no form. Thoughts, but no ideas. Alive, but without life. They shift nervously. This happens a lot. You've been told before that you have a strange, alien form. You've been told that your idea of a waiting room is more like an interrogation room. You've been told a lot of things.
"So, I'm dead?"
That term is incorrect.
"Oh. Um-" You watch them with idle curiosity now. They fidget again. You back away ever so slightly. Now, and again, you will see if they are adequate. You've been told, not by these things- but by your 'peers', as the mortals like to refer to equals as- that your requirements for an avatar are outside your station. Your job is to create, observe, then collect.
You find that boring. You are quickly finding this thing boring. If you wanted, you could just let them think what it is that you want to hear. But receiving placation without substance will not nourish you. They wriggle in their seat. You wonder. Is it Fear? Denial? Hate? Bargaining? Sorrow? You reach out towards this thing. Speak.
"Oh! . . . Really?" . . . "Well- I mean, I understand. I'm not real. Anymore. I think." Does it now. "Either I was some sort of pawn, being used... or I'm some sort of construct. A thought. Not even fully formed though- look at me." They look down at themselves. Indeed, their form was already hazy to begin with, and now, they are beginning to dissolve, as the edges of perception eats away at their remaining consciousness. Does this make you angry?
"Angry? Why?" They look at you. Even without a face, you can read everything. They're actually looking at you. Fascinating. "I mean. Let's presume I'm just a pawn. There would have been nothing I could have done about it. I don't have the understanding to even really parse what happened... I think I was- killed? By some terrifying creature. It was." They touch their chin. "Unnatural. If this was some weird chance, I'm not sure I would have survived an encounter with it anyway. Now, let us consider the alternative: That I'm some form of construct given form by your perception. That would be even weirder to be angry about, right? I mean- you created me. If anything, I should be thankful. I guess. But, none of that matters because I died, right?" Talkative, this one, when left alone to their own thoughts.
"I mean..." They rub their cheek, and look at themselves again. "I don't even have a name, do I? That means I'm at best, a background character. That's a little depressing, but it's alright!" You stare back at them. They don't fidget anymore. "I mean, if I 'm a background character, and I died- then that means I did my job, right? Either I was dressing for a scene- or maybe, if I'm lucky, I get to be the motivation for a hero! That means that nothing I did was useless, and that's what a lot of people want out of life, right?" Their face flickers, and suddenly- they smile at you. You see lips and teeth and they smile in a way you would describe as the smile of a pupil to a mentor after being told that they had done everything perfectly. "I was useful. I don't mind ending everything here and-"
You point at them. The movement of your body, your arm, thrusting into their face. They silence immediately. Your finger slowly points down to the table that they are sitting at, brushing the table with your fingertip, and bringing a piece of paper, an inkwell, and a pen into existence. Your name.
"But-... I don't have one."
Then make one. Who are you?
They look up at you, strapped down into their chair, at a small table in a room enclosed only by the ever-stretching walls of the void. You regard them with disconnected interest. Barely a formed thought, much less a character. Function, but no form. Thoughts, but no ideas. Alive, but without life. They shift nervously. This happens a lot. You've been told before that you have a strange, alien form. You've been told that your idea of a waiting room is more like an interrogation room. You've been told a lot of things.
"So, I'm dead?"
That term is incorrect.
"Oh. Um-" You watch them with idle curiosity now. They fidget again. You back away ever so slightly. Now, and again, you will see if they are adequate. You've been told, not by these things- but by your 'peers', as the mortals like to refer to equals as- that your requirements for an avatar are outside your station. Your job is to create, observe, then collect.
You find that boring. You are quickly finding this thing boring. If you wanted, you could just let them think what it is that you want to hear. But receiving placation without substance will not nourish you. They wriggle in their seat. You wonder. Is it Fear? Denial? Hate? Bargaining? Sorrow? You reach out towards this thing. Speak.
"Oh! . . . Really?" . . . "Well- I mean, I understand. I'm not real. Anymore. I think." Does it now. "Either I was some sort of pawn, being used... or I'm some sort of construct. A thought. Not even fully formed though- look at me." They look down at themselves. Indeed, their form was already hazy to begin with, and now, they are beginning to dissolve, as the edges of perception eats away at their remaining consciousness. Does this make you angry?
"Angry? Why?" They look at you. Even without a face, you can read everything. They're actually looking at you. Fascinating. "I mean. Let's presume I'm just a pawn. There would have been nothing I could have done about it. I don't have the understanding to even really parse what happened... I think I was- killed? By some terrifying creature. It was." They touch their chin. "Unnatural. If this was some weird chance, I'm not sure I would have survived an encounter with it anyway. Now, let us consider the alternative: That I'm some form of construct given form by your perception. That would be even weirder to be angry about, right? I mean- you created me. If anything, I should be thankful. I guess. But, none of that matters because I died, right?" Talkative, this one, when left alone to their own thoughts.
"I mean..." They rub their cheek, and look at themselves again. "I don't even have a name, do I? That means I'm at best, a background character. That's a little depressing, but it's alright!" You stare back at them. They don't fidget anymore. "I mean, if I 'm a background character, and I died- then that means I did my job, right? Either I was dressing for a scene- or maybe, if I'm lucky, I get to be the motivation for a hero! That means that nothing I did was useless, and that's what a lot of people want out of life, right?" Their face flickers, and suddenly- they smile at you. You see lips and teeth and they smile in a way you would describe as the smile of a pupil to a mentor after being told that they had done everything perfectly. "I was useful. I don't mind ending everything here and-"
You point at them. The movement of your body, your arm, thrusting into their face. They silence immediately. Your finger slowly points down to the table that they are sitting at, brushing the table with your fingertip, and bringing a piece of paper, an inkwell, and a pen into existence. Your name.
"But-... I don't have one."
Then make one. Who are you?