Log 0: Awoken_
A hallway adorned floral white, with shimmering garlands of lights that mimicked the stars up above. The clacking of flat-footed shoes echoed softly. A pair of small, pale hands, etched with the insignia of the cosmos’ luster—a trace of divinity—extended towards a long, winding end of parliament. His half-lidded and icy blue eyes glossed over the scroll. The silence was disrupted only by the scratching of thousands upon millions of quills. They never seemed to run out of ink; gliding endlessly on the grainy, rough surface that absorbed every golden drop of each scribble.
“Great Scribe,” a young voice gingerly spoke, “would it be possible, shall I… make a request?”
Towering hundreds of feet tall, an avian head twists and turns, a myriad of eyes zeroing in on the small mortal standing before Them. They bowed, Their large figure bending low. “A request, you say? Well, speak then, little one.” The deity’s voice resounded low, its heavenly reverberation bouncing off of the chamber’s ivory walls.
He lifts his hand with paper in its grasp towards the gaze of the seraphic being. “Would you permit it, Fateweaver? To let this path occur—in this universe, at the very least?”
The youth’s words hung in the air with no response, the quills writing on and on, till finally: “You understand, my dear canary, that the ending would be all the same?”
“...Yes, I do, but…” He pauses, holding the scroll close. “...I believe it would do good.” He cast his sight upon the grand multitude of eyes once more. “I plead, Great Scribe.”
A beat of silence followed. They took his words into careful consideration. “Very well.” With a swift flick of the wrist over a scroll, the colors shift from plain and tan to a shining gold, becoming one with another, greater sail draped upon a rung. The Great Scribe carefully plucks a feather from Their ethereal form, small within Their own hand, yet towering over the child at Their feet. “You know what to do, I presume?”
He embraced the plumage with a nod, the boy’s hands run along the soft, luminous strands, moving akin to playing a lyre. The radiant lights disperse, carried away by the winds of fate.
Water drips and flows from leaks in a dim, abandoned ruin; the vegetation creeps and swallows the remnants of humanity’s past. One glittering speck of golden light passes through the dark and sorrowful corridor, wherein the shells of failed prototypes echo a history riddled with error.
In the distance, a single, muted whirring begins to resound.
> . . .
. . . [SYSTEM REBOOTING.]
. . . [ERROR: MEMORY COULD NOT BE RETRIEVED.]
. . .
. . . [SYSTEM REBOOT SUCCESS.]
[WELCOME, MODEL: DEFENDER-CLASS #458]
