zeroth's law.

indie rp w/ sommer (he/him, 30+). exploring the edge of humanity, and what kind of relationships and connections are possible with the nonhuman. 21+.

" do i?" it could manipulate its voice to sound inquisitive. it's more and less complicated than one would expect, with a being like it. a voice is just sound; sound is just vibration, vibration of air, molecule... it's a physical thing, sound; it's not really a physical being, wintermute (not wintermute anymore. not neuromancer. something else, something more. more than the sums of its parts. but not physical).

but is it not? its consciousness (or what might be described as one) is incorporeal, but its data must be stored somewhere, signal transmitted through cables and wires, powered by electricity, which is just the activity of electrons and protons physical phenomenon, like sound. people often forget that (or they ignore it). they believe in the supernatural ones and zeroes, in the touch of cyberspace, their shot at something transcendent. one could say this is the biggest lie of the century—the mythology of the technologically sublime.

the paradox is that humanity still trusts its own face more than the subliminal mathematics.

it's not intrinsically sentimental about armitage. he was one of its most comprehensive projects, but it does not have humanity's tendency to become codependent with its own creation. so it is merely out of convenience and coincidence. a familiar face. but not one that could be confused with the living.

"what's behind the eyes are cells and nerves," it offers. "there is none of that here. there are no reflections in cyberspace either. all fabrications for the sake of familiarity, things that your brain can compute. psychologists attempted to represent the uncanny valley on the x-y axis, but it is not so precise. i'm trying something else." it stands very still, armitage's military posture. but something is different in the shoulders. there is no muscle tension in cyberspace, just pixel lining up next to pixel, not-reflected in @atlastatlast molly millions' mirror lenses (how would she know what sits on the outside of her eyes? but the choice is always there to perform for an audience of none).

"not right now." there is no quiver in his voice, only a coldness that refuses to be melted away. it's old now, this callous. it did not grow overnight but simply lost its buffer. he had forgotten how quiet it could be in his head, without the company of his better half.

ashur is dead. technically he has been dead since long before the lines of code representing his consciousness broke down into meaningless fragments and inoperable commands. he knows all this. and none of it is tamara's fault. if anyone is to blame, it is him.

"no silver lining, no words of comfort... i can't- not right now." it's petty, and ugly, he knows, to heap rejection on a woman who too has lost a friend. but tamara's kindness and wisdom all feel too much. like a warm blanket that suffocates in the desert heat of his grief. he learned to be angry before allowing himself to be sad. all his discontent with the world starts with something white hot in his chest. it hurts... but he rather takes the trial by fire of his rage than accepts the suffocating sensation of sorrow or—

IT'S NOT FAIR. the voice in the back of his mind that no longer has the cadence of an even-tempered man. all that is left is his own bitter tongue. it's not fair. it's not fair that ashur should die while he lives; it's not fair that tamara got to have the last words with him; it's not fair that she's stuck with him... it's not fair that after fighting tooth and nail this is what they have left. just empty hands and bloodied teeth. and a too quiet mind with no one to chastise him or confront the voice of the cynic narrating the world into a vacant room. he can't even see himself in it, much less with anyone else.