Mah-Jung of the Eternal Dragon sat in quiet contemplation.

The festivities of the celebration outside hadn’t roused him, nor had his spirit been captured by the revelry they represented. And, he noticed, none of his Brothers seemed to care that he was not among them.

He allowed himself a soft smile. He deserved that.

In truth, he was wondering when Longhua would come for him and reprimand him for his actions in blocking the Dao during the fights – his own trump card that the Cog had broken through. Through pure strength of spirit he had willed the barrier down.

“That’s why you shouldn’t leave, XJ-V,” he whispered to the bare walls of his chamber. “You are not mercenary enough for the Wastes. You were not made for them.”

He rebuked himself for this almost as instantly as the words spilled out. Still, he couldn’t accept the result that had been gnawing at the back of his mind. He’d known it was a possibility that he would fail even before the tournament had begun. Still, to be here, at this moment which the Dao had shown him so clearly…

It meant his options were limited. And that his time was running out.

So when the creaking door to his room finally opened, he did nothing but let out a soft, relieved sigh.

“I knew you would come, Master,” he said without turning to see his visitor. “The Dao never lies.”

The visitor closed the door behind him.

“No,” he said. “But it does show us multiple truths. One might say that is the same thing.”

That voice – not that of Longhua’s, not that of a human.

The Cog.

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Mah-Jung turned his face half an inch.

“So, you have come to see me, XJ-V,” he said. “Not to gloat, I imagine – that simply wouldn’t fit with your character, would it?”

When the Cog did not reply, Mah-Jung continued. He didn’t really know why. Any conversation between them was pointless, now.

“I hope you find what you seek in the Wasteland,” he said. “But take care that it does not find you first.”

“Do you hate me, Mah-Jung?”

Jung wanted to laugh. He kept his eyes closed, trying to escape to the Dao, even as his mind pulled him back. He’d figured it out as soon as their duel was over. He had abided far too much by his Ego – that was why he had stumbled and fallen. That was why he had been vain enough to believe he could stand up to the power of a slumbering God.

But he also could not forget that, for the briefest moment, he had welcomed death. He had welcomed the premature snuffing of life’s flickering candle. He wouldn’t ever forget that.

“Why do you care, Cog?” he asked. “You came here and changed everyone’s minds regarding your nature – even that of the Masters.”

“Hatred burns the hateful more than it does the object of their scorn.”

“Ah,” Mah-Jung chuckled. “The words of Aun’El himself, quoted by a machine. Ironic, is it not, that the founder of the fieriest of all the Sects would preach about the dangers of hatred?”

“Perhaps it is not ironic at all,” XJ-V replied. “Of all the creatures that once walked the earth, a dragon would understand the danger present in its own fire.”

Mah-Jung frowned.

“…no, XJ-V,” he finally said. “If the opinion of a single human being truly matters to you at all, I do not bear you any resentment. You won because you were supposed to. I failed because I was supposed to. We can only do what we are supposed to do. We can only live the lives we are meant to live. That is the truth of the Wasteland written in the Dao.”

For a moment, XJ-V made no reply, and Mah-Jung thought with no small relief that the machine-man had finally left him to his thoughts. Then, a small shuffling of movement right behind him made him realize that the Cog had just put something on the ground. Curiosity suddenly took hold of the normally reserved Jung, and he turned to see the object.

A tiny piece of crumpled parchment upon which two lines were written in a shaky hand:

‘On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand, dare seize the fire?’

Jung looked at the words quizzically as XJ-V attempted to explain himself:

“They are taken from a poem,” he said. “One that is lodged deep in the banks of my memories. I am not skilled with words, Mah-Jung. I was not created with the capacity to compose writings born of my own imagination. My Creator was a logically-minded being, and I thought that perhaps he saw such things as trivialities. Yet he held this poem close to his heart, almost as though it held a kind of meaning for him. To me, the words do not sing. But they do pull. They pull me towards you, Mah-Jung. I think these words are meant for you.”

Mah-Jung looked from the intricately copied letters to the neon-glazed face of the machine who was smiling down at him.

“If nothing else, see these words as a parting gift – one Brother to another. Perhaps these words may hold a truth for you that is not written down in the Dao. The more I see of this human world, the less I seem to understand. But there are times – moments – when I feel what you may call love for this place you all call home. And if a heartless machine like me can feel love for a world like this, a human like you can find a different path to walk within it.”

The Cog turned briskly and departed without saying anything more, leaving Mah-Jung to stare after him blankly before slowly reaching to trace the words of the poem with a shaking finger.

‘On what wings dare he aspire?’

“XJ-V,” he whispered. “Could you have known..? All along…”

He let the question drop with sagging shoulders. Because, at this point, the answer didn’t matter at all.