Ollivan scowled at each of his organs after detaching them, placing them in their appropriate primers, and hooking himself into Machine. The city he had built, whose heart was his heart, and mind his mind, and that had in turn forgotten him. At best Ollivan was, as Hemaut remembered him, a faceless visionary who had collected data for the sovereign Archive. At worst, he was as Hemaut actually knew him, an old man – more machine than man these days – who made fake dogs and had a strange way of seeing the world.
Missed was the connection between his strange sight and the revered Archive. Forgotten was that this city which gives all citizens immortality was also his vision. His creation. All that remained was an old man and the realization that there is no such thing as immortality in a world where no one cares to remember death. Forgotten was the source of life.