YOU APPROACHED ME, THING. IF IT WERE MY CHOICE, WE WOULD NOT BE CONVERSING.
[No one seems content to leave well enough alone, let alone precocious children with delusions of grandeur and relevance.
He turns, and faces them, releasing their SOUL from the binds of the blue magic freezing them in place, at the mercy of whatever values he chooses to index. He is smiling.
He has always hated that he smiles. His facial features are indistinct at best, and now he smiles, a perpetual rictus frozen on features that are indistinct in every way they are possible to be.
His mouth opens. His eyesockets, far more pliable than anything initially sculpted from bone should be, dilate. Pinpricks of light glisten within the things that were once eyesockets, that might have quantifiable and describable as eyesockets but certainly are no longer, hot and bright and stained blue, amber, blue, amber, blue -
Something spills from every orifice.
Something dark.
Darker.
And yet, even d a r k e r.
It flows unevenly from a parted maw, viscous and oily and heavy with altered variables and altered states and divergences and binary choices, lines of ones and zeroes rendered pointless by a divergence of choices, branching pathways, unused images, locked files, source coding, sprites that were not and will never be used -
It doesn't look like tar, or blood, or dust.
It doesn't look like anything.
Something, some part of him, it tears and stutters and skips like a stuck tape, and then that blackness, that darkness, is gone.]
NONE OF THIS, [says the man with his hands, measured and controlled,] HAS OR EVER WILL CONCERN YOU. THIS NARRATIVE WAS NEVER YOURS TO PLUNDER AT YOUR CONVENIENCE. SO RUN ALONG, AND DO WHATEVER IT IS HYPER-DESTRUCTIVE LITTLE THINGS SUCH AS YOURSELF DO.
no subject
[No one seems content to leave well enough alone, let alone precocious children with delusions of grandeur and relevance.
He turns, and faces them, releasing their SOUL from the binds of the blue magic freezing them in place, at the mercy of whatever values he chooses to index. He is smiling.
He has always hated that he smiles. His facial features are indistinct at best, and now he smiles, a perpetual rictus frozen on features that are indistinct in every way they are possible to be.
His mouth opens. His eyesockets, far more pliable than anything initially sculpted from bone should be, dilate. Pinpricks of light glisten within the things that were once eyesockets, that might have quantifiable and describable as eyesockets but certainly are no longer, hot and bright and stained blue, amber, blue, amber, blue -
Something spills from every orifice.
Something dark.
Darker.
And yet, even d a r k e r.
It flows unevenly from a parted maw, viscous and oily and heavy with altered variables and altered states and divergences and binary choices, lines of ones and zeroes rendered pointless by a divergence of choices, branching pathways, unused images, locked files, source coding, sprites that were not and will never be used -
It doesn't look like tar, or blood, or dust.
It doesn't look like anything.
Something, some part of him, it tears and stutters and skips like a stuck tape, and then that blackness, that darkness, is gone.]
NONE OF THIS, [says the man with his hands, measured and controlled,] HAS OR EVER WILL CONCERN YOU. THIS NARRATIVE WAS NEVER YOURS TO PLUNDER AT YOUR CONVENIENCE. SO RUN ALONG, AND DO WHATEVER IT IS HYPER-DESTRUCTIVE LITTLE THINGS SUCH AS YOURSELF DO.