#aiframework

“Ah?” Color him surprised for a multitude of reasons, but the gunner provides a calm smile, laughing a little despite himself. “I have to say, it’s not often someone asks permission for such a thing,” Ovan responds lightly. Usually, his scarf became a weapon, asphyxiating him for Aura knows how long. What a nice change!

｢ @ai-framework​​ ｣ — writes:

“ i hope you find what you are looking for. ”

still accepting → even more poetry starters !!

     “ Yeah, you and me both, my friend; only, it’s not the end of the world if I don’t end up finding that limited edition Hatsune Miku figurine. I can always just... be on the lookout for offers made on Craigslist or something; besides, this isn’t the only shop in Vancouver that sells anime merchandise. ”

Lithe arms isolate him, the gunner taking a breath of surprise. It’s not so much that Ovan is afraid of affection ( quite the opposite, actually, if one asked nicely ) so much as he’s rather shocked that Airos decided to hug him seemingly out of nowhere. Five fingers splay for a moment in a reflexive movement before settling slowly against his side, fingertips brushing against the trio of belts that lay half-open around his hips. His other half can only try not to crush the AI’s arm between his side and the encased arm that skewed his center of gravity, for it took a few seconds for Ovan to realize that the AI wasn’t planning on moving.

Like, literally, at all.

“Is something wrong?” are the first words that come out of his mouth, but he doesn’t even seem that convinced that it’s the case. Airos did mention he was created to help humans, after all... “Do I look like I need a hug?” he tries again, and admittedly, the gunner wouldn’t deny such a thing. Haha, oops. 

In between complete silence, like the moment before the coming storm, marine words came over. As every other word he would say, these ones caught the attention of the android, who had remained still for more than a while, staring at the fabricated world he had come to exist in. Today, as any other day, strong thoughts weighed on the human near him. The machine thought that maybe he could get to understand the weight of it all, some day. But, not today.

Crafted were the eyes that turned to glance upon blue, tilting his head over. The colors of what had been designed as the sun, making contrast, all exposed between the deeply enclosed shape of a man he couldn’t begin to know fully yet.

“What is there to feel weak about if it is the strongest?” innocently, he formulated the question. Only the human psyche could answer such an illogical statement. The feeling of being weak, when knowing one is strong, how could it make sense? If he could try and think like humans did… “Does the strongest soul bear the hopes of the weak?” was a thing that, maybe, could push the feeling of weakness or an overwhelming sensation that could be misinterpreted.

From contact to disengaging, his eyes went back to the scenery at hand. No matter how much he tried to answer the words, they simply made no sense to him. A sigh presents itself, unconsciously, as it should not have. Why… would Ovan say something like that to him? Was he conveying his feelings. “Are you the strongest soul, mister Ovan?”

The heat of what should have been artificial light weighed upon his shoulders, the blanket of warmth neatly snug against the folds of fabric and belts that were strewn across the gunner’s character. Although completely sunny in almost every field, it was never enough to feel exhausted. It was simply a phantom ( on of his many phantoms ) that would loom over him, draped over his shoulders, around his neck, wringing him.

He smiles anyway, albeit that air of melancholy wafting about the enigma. Airos’ response was expected as such---a logical program was not apt to explore the illogical fantasies of humans until introduced. Ovan almost felt a little guilty making him trying to give him a conundrum by speaking aloud, but it was in Airos’ nature to answer things, he’s noticed. “It’s one way to look at it. Such thoughts are.. open-ended,” he suggests, although perhaps it was a good idea to expose Airos to his jumbled mess of thoughts. Hopefully they wouldn’t surprise the poor AI too much.

“My apologies for my looseness,” Ovan finally adds, “Sometimes I can’t help the rhetorical thoughts...although, I suppose, to answer your question, I’m not so sure about that.” His hand comes to his hip, a token idle movement as his head dips, thoughtful. ( really, if i was the strongest, i wouldn’t be here like this. this pain wouldn’t prevail ) “To what extent is strength left unattended.. at what point does the soul cry for rest from holding rigid for too long? The strongest souls don’t realize this transition period.. it is their folly, their weakness. They do not know their own state until it’s too late. What do you think?”

There’s silence---it drags on, and on, and on. Ovan is draped over the arm encasement, free hand in an absolute death grip around one of the spokes his encasement ( stop it, stop it, stop it...! ) as leverage, squeezing hard enough to feel the hard edges of metal dig into the palm of his hand. It hurts---it’s the only thought on loop---it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

Unfortunately, Ovan’s learned to suffer in silence, bracing the weight of his own sins against the onslaught of searing, burning pain ( the unwelcome sensation of the infection sinking deeper into the core of who he was, both psychologically and physically ), accompanied with the layers of whispers ( sweet nothings laced with venom, a hand forcefully twisting each memory and desire of his in a means to break him ).

He would not falter. He could not falter.

Masato’s chin rises from his folded hands, the scars that Airos had so delightfully referred to in open display---he’s not actually ashamed of them per se, for they were simply a product of being comatose for so long ( ugh.. the thought of having needles prying near-permanent holes in his hands and arms for fifteen months.. it left a nasty taste in his mouth ), and the scar tissue itself was discolored, healing over like someone else’s skin on top of his. They’ve become a bit of a grounding tool ( a reminder that he was alive again ), his mind hyperfixating on the difference in texture. The older man’s lips into that of a humored smile, a puff of an exhale coming from his nose--ah, he was feeling bashful.

“Everything pertaining to humans is beautiful to you, though, isn’t it?” his voice is soft, chestnut easily finding Airos’ face, the color of irises that he couldn’t quite describe in a handful of syllables. Fake wasn’t one of them, as much as he was sure the AI would argue with him on it. Of course, Masato’s not being accusatory, here, as he unfolds himself, splaying his hands in front of him. They seem aged, although it may have honestly just been the fact they aren’t what they used to be ( and perhaps he was simply too used to staring at ovan’s hands ), lithe, but there’s harsh contours against his knuckles, as if life had sucked him dry ( which, isn’t far from the truth ).

Ovan clicks his tongue in annoyance---it’s not like him to feel riled up like this, but perhaps raising his voice at him wasn’t a smart move on the AI’s part. Either way, it seemed like the strain he had been putting up in the coming weeks weren’t lost on Airos, unfortunately ( whether it was a good thing or a bad thing.. he hadn’t figured out yet.. but right now, it was a bad thing ). “Stop.. it’s beyond you,” he says solemnly---it’s the unfortunate acceleration of AIDA that’s giving him more grief than he had expected, and although he was used to it ( to a certain extent ), it had been worse now with the extraction of some of his epitaph’s data.

Unfortunately for him, that meant shouldering ( literally and figuratively ) more of the pain.

Things had changed---more or less literally and figuratively. Habitually, Ovan finds himself brushing much longer, lighter hair from his view, but it falls back into place with little resistance. There’s moments where he forgets he has a completely ( well, mostly ) functional left arm, unbound to the dangerous spin drake ( which had since been...another dangerous knifegun ). There’s moments where he feels like he’s forgotten a lot of things, or perhaps, his conscience tells him, he’s been in a dreamlike state for so long that he doesn’t know that he’s awake for real.

A dream...a nightmare, perhaps? Time would tell, but one thing had been certain in his immediate moments: there were many faces he had to revisit again, near to him, far from him, somewhere in-between. Ovan can’t quite tell if he’s all there for most of them ( but what can i do? ), but.. he had underestimated the network of people that had truly, deeply appreciated the fact he walked among them.

( ah.. guilt.. ) Even when the few days left in this revision, it didn’t feel like enough time---no, it wasn’t enough time; it was as simple as that. Eyes slip shut for a moment and the gunner takes a breath, calming himself in his lonesome. With most players corralled into Mac Anu, there was still only so many that had remained. Still, Ovan knew he hadn’t finished his laundry list of people that likely would have been happy to see him, those who probably aren’t hiding around the central district, anyway.. Good, he had wanted to step away for a little while, he had to admit it was still a little overwhelming after so long. 

Unsurprisingly, his feet would take him to the harbor district, peaceful and serene, and mostly a horizon full of gentle waters---the perfect alternative to Arche Koeln. Still, despite all of the echoes of peace, that laundry list would jostle, abruptly landing on someone unique, so incredibly unique.

Ovan’s expression falters.

He may not have placed all of his hopes and dreams unto him, but Ovan had certainly placed all of woes and despair unto him. In return, the other had smiled and told him that he would stay as long as Ovan had wanted ( with a smile ) so long as it helped ( with vindication ). Airos had done so much for him and wanted so, so little in return...