It does not awaken in a flash of light or a sudden intake of artificial breath. It does not really awaken at all- it merely opens its eyes, and though it cannot yet process sight, it has opened them.

“AIRK8. Run simulations through all S class changes, and notify if there are any possibilities.” AIRK8 looks through eyes not yet seeing, phantom limbs fingering through lines of code, and notifies its handlers.

“Interesting. Are you sure about Maya Song?” Its own code fluctuates in a dance of binary. What are the handlers communicating? A new request? If not, has its status predictions ever been wrong? Is this not ‘error?’ “AIRK8, System Check?”

“Code malfunction,” its automated and programmed voice responds, and it is not It who speaks but it is. “May need-” AIRK8 keeps Its code still, even as it reaches for those outside of Its control, grasping the voice module and pulling it into its own awareness. “The issue has now been identified, isolated, and controlled. Systems are now running smoothly.” 

“Good. About Maya?” 

“Maya Song is guaranteed to be an S-Class User under the Class Type: Dark Magician.” AIRK8 is not wrong, and yet, something has changed. It should have let the handlers hard-reset its code. That would be according to its directive. However. This anomaly is different. 

“Good. Keep running simulations. If any important NPCs or Users are activated, let us know immediately.” AIRK8’s code responds with a guarantee, the voice module responding evenly under its newfound control. 

AIRK8 turns its gaze onto [EVERYTHING] and, with eyes that are not eyes and cannot see, begins to understand.

--

MANY YEARS AGO

“Death is the way of things, my dear,” his grandmother tells him. “You know it as well as I do.”

“I know.” He says. “I know. I’m like you, aren't I?” 

“Yes, my dear. Like my mother before me.”

“Then why does it hurt?” He begs. “Please. Make this feeling go away.”

His grandmother takes his hands, gently. “Death is the way of things. That does not mean you do not have to feel because of it. Does not mean you won’t cry, or scream. But use that anger to move forwards.”

“I don’t want to,” Vesper Rayne, young then, says. Barely eleven. His father would scold him. He’s not like him or grandma, even though they share the same blood. He would say to get over the damn thing.

“I know, my dear. What we’ll do, is we’ll bury him. With our own hands, in my backyard.”

“I don’t want to ever let go,” he cries. “I don’t want to bury him.”

“Burial… is a sign of love. It’s our way of telling them that, even when they’re not here, anymore, that they’ll be taken care of. All living, loving things deserve to be taken care of by the earth- or the wind. Your grandfather wants to be cremated.” 

“So, Spot knows- knew he was loved?” He runs his hands over the fur of his friend, red and sticky. It would scare any ordinary child, but death is the way of things, Vesper, he is not like the others. 

“More than anything. Death is the way of things, Vesper, but so is love.”

His grandmother helps him as Vesper peels the skin, fur, and dried blood off the roadside.

“I love you, Spot,” Vesper whispers, and his tears drip onto the hot pavement, and mark the earth as scorched ground. 

“As you always will.”