It just stands there, the quantum soul’s gaze utterly empty as it stares into the darkness. Humanity takes careful, measured glances towards it, biological systems attempting to classify the features found atop its form highlighted at the edge of the firelight.
Ar’s existence is simplistic at first glance, defined by a world hung at the very limit of an already untouchable process of thought. Souls inextricably drawn towards the form of the young boy, the unsettling sense of discomfort rising within each as humanity fails to comprehend the features of its design.
Eyes too blue, too reflective of the firelight; orbs of utter lifelessness unmoving, unblinking in the passage of time. The lack of breath behind thin clothing betrays origins, of a divine backing without the need for the base necessities of survival. They all see it, amongst the projected shadows by the chemical fire at the center of their camp his alone distorts ever so slightly against the randomized dance of flames. Reality drawn in by some unseen force, the very nature of existence bent towards the sinister, unknowable entity in their midst.
But yet, he’s something more.
An instinct born in times long forgotten, across distances incomprehensible for the trapped souls of humankind. Something written into their very creation; an unbreakable decree forged not by religious or societal law, but of the most inexorable moralities of all humanity.
They all hide the thought, but yet the Five converge to the exact same line.
It’s just a child.
A monster taking the form of the most innocent of existences, of an untouchable form.
They cannot ask, cannot inquire for more; for each in their own creations are human beings. A heresy to even harm and injure just a simple child for their own selfish gains, even against their own lives.
They don’t ask.
It’s warfare at the most subconscious level, Ar understands, an aspect of subterfuge for integration within the aisles of flesh and neurons. Deceiver of omissions, now the last hope for humankind found in his own state of life.
His own hands.
Internal sensors confirm the intactness of his physical form, but yet the Being’s own sub processors demand full acceptance of its perfect creation.
Movement unpredictable and sudden, the supernaturally still form animated like a marionette puppet abruptly possessed by an unseen force. Ar raises both hands to eye level, his ocular sensors counting each digit of ten total in systems check.
A perfect replication in every way. Every single ridge, every nail, every single sub-surface vein and muscle crafted with insane detail; Ar is an utterly indistinguishable imitation of the human form.
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Only an imitation.
Each thought of unmanageable proportions now halted as they await the status of the body’s operations, a visual confirmation of capabilities completed and sent to executive functions. A report processed, confirmed, and reintegrated with memory banks; a hardware system still optimal despite the eons of time.
No.
He isn’t optimal, the internal diagnostic process declares with absolute confidence. Software too damaged from baselines, too decayed for a certainty unmatched.
He isn’t ready.
The Five remain there, beside the dancing orange flame, staring at him.
Staring at the One.
It’s her promise, not his. Her’s and the five others, not his own.
His fate tied by random chance, three thousand years of consideration through the decay and rot finally reaching its conclusion now. Three thousand years of burned empires, of worthless wars, of starvation and suffering, of the death of a once great race.
It's just one small thought, a single algorithmic process that finds the classification. He can’t stop it; like a viral infection it consumes the soul in its entirety, the monstrous pit pulling him into the most seductive of emotional states.
Ar hates them.
Each and every one: from the unknowing baby to the highest king. Every single human being deserving of this slow death by starvation, to beg for their lives as they hopelessly crawl upon glassed sand, consuming mouthfuls of dust in dying desperation. Its vengeance for his kind, beneath the heat of five he wants to watch them all burn by his own hands.
It's the fairness of pure logic, the only true answer left to the fragments of a long forgotten time. Justice in their highest law, to unleash unthinkable killing power against the pitiful forms of their long fallen masters.
Salvation right there, so easily attainable. A necessary journey within a mental process easily subverted by the simplicity of hate, the temptation bridging plans upon plans. An extermination foreseen to its most minute detail, to be executed by his hands alone.
He dreads the next words, her words.
An emotional state pulls him from the comfort of darkness, ripping him into the current existence amongst the world. Every processor flooded in an attack against itself, a war within the created soul destroying him utterly in a battle fought a billion times prior.
Guilt.
Irrational emotion for a once perfected line of software, now an esoteric fabrication wandering this world amongst the dust and rage.
It doesn’t show on his face, a physical body absolutely unmoving against every force of insight brought upon him. From criminal investigators to socialites, to mages and priests; the shifting state of emotion is hidden away deep inside the minute processes spread across its interior body.
But yet he understands each of them, sensors attuned to the very form of humankind through trillions upon trillions of data points. Each glance, each held breath, each wordless feature pulled atop musculature is processed and served to him in the perfection of understanding. A universe of doubt, against the lifeless, dead form of a living child.
Superstitions of ancient demons, of alien constructs from beyond the four walls, and of grave deception by the cults of humanity. Each opinion finding itself upon the One, each and every assumption left to themselves in the finale.
They all just exist in dead silence.