A "friend" is... someone who can accept your heart.
[ It spreads, dark and viscous, crimson turned black under the pall of night, crawling slowly in the gaps between the cobbles at his feet. The blood dripping from his blade falls in fat drops on the paving stones, steam rising into the cold evening air from the Stalker that has finally breathed their last. All the weasel-masked girl had wanted was to sleep with a full belly, she had said.
If she had only asked instead of attacked, the puppet might have given her something. He doesn't tell himself this was a kindness. She was in his way, that's all.
She was in his way.
'Maybe it's time to take a break, yeah?' chirped his friend, his guide, his conscience, from the lamp glowing furtively from the belt around his hips. Gemini was the only one who was never afraid of his readiness to kill while never wanting to exploit it. ]
All of it. Even the parts that aren't... easy to like.
A "friend" shares your path, for a little while, or a long while. Sometimes, in its fruits.
[ "Hello, my only friend. What have you to show me today?"
A broken, malfunctioning puppet lying in a lonely cave on the outskirts of the polluted swamp that serves as a landfill for discarded homomachina. Singularly rare among his kind, he wants only to understand humans, praying for the day when he can be their "friend". Heart-breaking his gratitude, when shown a pantomime of emotion he may never fully understand by someone who straddles the boundary between man and machine.
"You may not be my only friend," his voice box crackled, "But you'll always be my first friend." ]
I'm interested in what yours looks like, Makoto. [ Whether he means his heart or his path, he does not elaborate. Perhaps he doesn't bother to distinguish one from the other, his self-awareness too new and too young to know how to live in any way that isn't terrifyingly authentic. ] What does it mean to you?
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[ It spreads, dark and viscous, crimson turned black under the pall of night, crawling slowly in the gaps between the cobbles at his feet. The blood dripping from his blade falls in fat drops on the paving stones, steam rising into the cold evening air from the Stalker that has finally breathed their last. All the weasel-masked girl had wanted was to sleep with a full belly, she had said.
If she had only asked instead of attacked, the puppet might have given her something. He doesn't tell himself this was a kindness. She was in his way, that's all.
She was in his way.
'Maybe it's time to take a break, yeah?' chirped his friend, his guide, his conscience, from the lamp glowing furtively from the belt around his hips. Gemini was the only one who was never afraid of his readiness to kill while never wanting to exploit it. ]
All of it. Even the parts that aren't... easy to like.
A "friend" shares your path, for a little while, or a long while. Sometimes, in its fruits.
[ "Hello, my only friend. What have you to show me today?"
A broken, malfunctioning puppet lying in a lonely cave on the outskirts of the polluted swamp that serves as a landfill for discarded homomachina. Singularly rare among his kind, he wants only to understand humans, praying for the day when he can be their "friend". Heart-breaking his gratitude, when shown a pantomime of emotion he may never fully understand by someone who straddles the boundary between man and machine.
"You may not be my only friend," his voice box crackled, "But you'll always be my first friend." ]
I'm interested in what yours looks like, Makoto. [ Whether he means his heart or his path, he does not elaborate. Perhaps he doesn't bother to distinguish one from the other, his self-awareness too new and too young to know how to live in any way that isn't terrifyingly authentic. ] What does it mean to you?