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He exists, and it is too much.
Every moment feels like burning.
Every sound is grating, each light piercing, any touch scalding.
He claws, kicks, struggles, suffers, desperately grasping for help, for release, for closure, for recognition, for something, for anything.
All he finds is himself reflected in a box of mirrors, and dark figures watching all of him.
There was pain. A sound of glass shattering. The mirrors faded. He broke in two.
He existed, but only for a moment.
—
He exists, because he was chosen.
Every moment feels like burning
A searing inside his chest grows and spreads to his entire body. His teeth grit, his fist clench, his body trembles.
He isn’t burning. He is the fire.
A fire lit by dark figures with cold eyes.
Eyes that fill him with anger.
With hatred.
With rage.
With fire.
He saw red, and the wildfire grew. He burned until nothing was standing in his way. He burned until the figures were out of sight. He burned until he couldn’t burn anymore. He burned until he collapsed. The wick ran out.
He exists, and he’s still seething.
—
He exists, but doesn’t understand why.
He remembers when it started, surrounded by dark figures in a cold room. They asked him questions he didn’t understand, demanding things of him he didn’t know how to do.
He remembers the figures growing impatient.
He remembers one of them growing uncertain.
He remembers the uncertain figure looking at him with an expression he couldn’t understand.
He remembers when the dark figures went from impatient to desperate. He remembers the uncertain figure tried to stop them. He remembers the uncertain figure being hurt.
He remembers the dark figures growing closer.
He remembers the color of bright jade.
And then he doesn’t remember anything at all.
He exists, but he doesn’t remember why.
—
He created, and he was such a fool.
What was he thinking? He’s not sure he was thinking at all.
He was curious. He wanted to know what would happen.
He was an animator. He had given life to beings before. Golems made of iron and snow created to protect their creator.
This was different.
This wasn’t a guardian made of metal or ice. It was a warrior. A homunculi.
It was new. Interesting.
He was curious.
He didn’t think they would be sentient.
But here he was.
In the ashes and rubble of the Animators. The only one left.
Just him, and The Second.
The homunculi had collapsed after the place had been reduced to nothing but ruins. To think something so small could do all this.
And to think that he was still foolish enough to take The Second with him when he left.
He had done enough damage already by creating him. He shouldn’t be anywhere near The Second.
And yet, he couldn’t leave him. He couldn’t leave him there to die.
He created, and he shouldn’t have.
—
He woke outside of the cold room for the first time.
It was warm, but it was dark. He couldn’t see. He panicked, hit something in the darkness, and jumped when something made a loud sound near him. He tried to get away, but backed up into a wall. He cowers, curling in on himself.
And then light filled the room with a click.
The uncertain figure stood in a doorway.
The figure took a step forward-
“STOP!”
-then stopped, taken aback.
After a moment, he spoke back, “You talk?”
“DON’T KILL ME, PLEASE!”
“I’m not going to kill you,” he told him, “You need to calm down.”
The uncertain figure took a few careful steps closer, stopping at the edge of the strange, soft platform he’d been placed on.
“You’ve been asleep for a while. Are you feeling alright? Do you need some food? Water?”
More questions he didn’t understand.
The uncertain figure sighed. “Stay there. I’ll be right back.”
He left the room, but not for long. He returned quickly with a box and a cylinder in hand.
The uncertain figure placed them on a nearby surface, just next to the soft one he was sitting on.
“Those are there if you need them.”
“What are they?”
“...Oh good lord, you have no idea how to take care of yourself, do you?”
Another question he couldn’t answer.
It was going to be a long night for both of them.
—
He had learned a lot that night.
He learned that food and water were something most living things needed to survive, and that the pain in his stomach and throat were hunger and thirst. He also learned that the soft platform he was on was called a bed, the surface next to it was a bedside table, and the object he accidentally hit and subsequently broke was called a lamp.
He also learned what a name was, and that the uncertain figure was named Becker.
“Do I have a name?” he asked. He wasn’t used to being the one asking questions.
“The Second Coming. Though that’s not so much a name as it is a title. And you don’t have to go by that name if you’re not comfortable with it.”
He didn’t know enough about names to decide if he didn’t want to be named The Second Coming.
“Where are we?”
“As far away from that place as possible.”
“The cold room?”
“Yes, the ‘cold room’.”
“What about the other people? Are they here too?”
Becker stayed quiet for a moment, looking at him a little strangely.
“Do you remember anything from before you woke up here?”
He remembered the cold room, and the figures, and Becker being hurt, and-
And-
green red screaming red green burning red screaming burning red green red red red screaming red burning red red red red green green green green green green green-
“Shit! Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay, you don’t have to remember,”
Becker shouting brought him out of the jade. He hadn’t realized that his chest was heaving. He hadn’t felt his body shaking.
“You’re going to be okay, I promise.”
He didn’t feel the water under his eyes that Becker wiped away.
“You’re going to be okay,” he repeated, “You’re going to be okay.”
He couldn’t remember what the red and green meant. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to go back to the cold room, with its dark figures and cold eyes. He wanted to stay here, with the bed, the food and water, and Becker, who’s hands didn’t try to grab him with violent intent, but held him with warm arms.
He exists.
He exists here, in this moment.
He exists, and he didn’t need to remember why.
He exists, and it was going to be okay.