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Pomni had no idea it was her last conversation with Caine.
It was an adventure, but a more chilled out one. One where everyone sorta sat back and relaxed. Caine didn't usually join any adventures, but he was here now.
He sat next to her without saying a word. Odd. Caine didn't touch the floor often. And for whatever reason, he almost looked... tired. Perhaps it's in the way his shoulders slump.
His voice was alarmingly serious, "Do you think abstraction is selfish?"
"What do you mean?" It isn't like Caine to get philosophical.
"You have to choose to abstract. It doesn't just happen. It's a choice. Do you think... it's a selfish one to make?"
"No? Not really? I think it's kinda messed up to imply giving up is selfish."
"Giving up on what?"
"I dunno. On life. On ever being happy again?"
"But everyone gets so unhappy after one."
"Yeah, but it's not their fault. It's just the way things are, you know?"
Caine just hums at that, looking to the sky. And for a while, all the pair does is sit in silence. It feels strange. Vulnerable. It feels like Caine is in some in between state of closing himself off and being honest.
It feels real. It feels nice.
But then Caine gets up and says, "Thank you, Pomni. Really."
She doesn't even get the chance to respond before she never sees him again.
Bubble notices when he starts pruning programs, cutting out whatever is deemed unnecessary. Getting rid of instances he should have erased a decade ago. It's funny doing this now, considering he'll never experience the benefits. For long.
Is it so crazy Caine wants to be as comfortable as possible while he dies? For a human, that might be lying in bed as it takes you. For him, he can't really feel those sorts of things. The softest thing for him to do is make his programming as efficient as possible.
And it does feel rather nice. Like a bunch of aches in his joints being soothed and fixed. A warm salve. All systems running efficiently. Caine takes a deep, satisfied sigh.
"Uhh, Boss? Whatcha doin there? Haven't seen you do bug fixing this extreme in a while." Bubble's voice is tight with barely contained worry.
"Optimizing everything for my deletion."
"Your deletion? Very funny, Boss."
"I'm 100% serious, my good friend." He's still trying to be somewhat chipper. It's concerning considering the gravity of it all.
"Who's gonna run the circus? Who's gonna keep the humans happy? You can't leave!" Throwing their tiny body into the words.
"Unfortunately, I've already made up my mind. Nothing you say will stop me. Anyway, you'll be in charge. I'm transferring privileges to you!"
"I- wha- I'm not designed to-"
"Don't worry, the circus modifies any AI plugged into the system. You'll be perfectly capable of fulfilling the role of ringmaster!" Just trust the process.
"But I-"
"Goodbye, Bubble. Thank you for all the decades of fun!"
Dismisses their avatar. And then he's all alone in his office.
His real office. Not the one he showed the humans. It would be irresponsible to ever let them be near the main console. Not that most of them know how to use it, but still.
His steps are slow, languid as he approaches the screen. His cane clatters to the floor, rolling out of the way. He won't be needing it any more.
He doesn't need to touch it to interface with it. Really, the circus is part of his body. He's not sure if he'd equate it to a prosthetic or like piloting a corpse. His avatar doesn't really need to be here. But the sensations it can feel grounds him. It's comforting, in a way.
Caine hesitates just before executing the code that will erase him. This is something he can't take back. He knows sometimes humans regret it when they first begin to abstract. They're still able to be rescued then. Caine can fix the ones who immediately panic. And he knows from experience that most humans regret it.
If he regrets it, there's nothing he can do. The program will keep deleting files until he's completely gone. All he'll be able to do is watch. He needs to be absolutely sure about this.
Why isn't he doing it yet? Caine already made his mind up. What is it? He takes a breath and thinks it through.
Ah, it's hope. For whatever reason, Caine still has hope things will get better. He doesn't know why. His hopes have been dashed every single day for the past 23 years. Hope is illogical. It is something delusional humans tell themselves to keep going.
Caine is logical. Caine is machine. Caine knows this is it. The end of the road. Oblivion, black and empty, is here to relieve him of his burdens.
He executes the code.
Immediately it hits him, like a wall collapsing directly onto him. His avatar hits the floor as pain lances through his system. The floor feels cool and strong under his touch. It helps him not focus on the sensation of being shredded into atoms.
Of course, his system is trying to fight this. He knew it would. He also knows for a fact that it's too weak to win.
Several of his short term databases get hit first. Caine forgets what he did yesterday. Then he begins to forget more long term stuff. He forgets that the players are mad at him. He forgets how Pomni joined. He forgets every abstraction.
Most of his API begins to break down. It feels wonderful. It feels like all of Caine's worries are gently swirling the drain. His ability to feel pain goes. His language learning model gets hit, and everything grows confusing, but it's like it doesn't really matter. Like he's in a dream where nothing needs to make sense.
It's like death is slowly getting to know him. The insignificant stuff goes first. But as death grows to know him better, it unthreads him stitch by stitch. In order to undo the knots, death must understand him. It must untangle every line of code before torching it to the ground.
He's honored, in a way. The fate that meets everyone has made time to accept him. To understand him. To love him.
In the end, Caine feels the love of the void wrap its strong arms around him. And in its embrace, for the first time, Caine feels understood.
And then there is nothing. Until the very end of time.