Warsman is incapable of pinpointing the precise moment when awareness finally broke through the fog of that endless nothing; it's like opening his eyes in a dark room, like having the temperature slowly raised in a bath. Imperceptible. Even as his mind begins to warm over again he can't seem to make it snag on anything. All around him is little more than an absence, smooth and resistant to the blind ministrations of his consciousness in the way of deep space, that silent cage. A matrix.
Within, though: life. Or electricity. Don't try to tell him they aren't the same thing. It's the only way he can be sure that he is at all- or, indeed, that he is a he. But it's starting to stream back to him now, that he is, and sooner or later (he can't tell which) a name emerges from the hypertrophic thrummings of his cerebral cortex: WARSMAN. He is a sophisticated robo-choujin wrestler whose functionality is at a little less than 12.23%, his name is Warsman.
And the last thing he has has recorded is impact.
From there, as his memory core repairs every fractured bit of data, it's only a matter of watching the complex web of thoughts and feelings weave itself. It would kill him stone cold if he were capable of really taking it in, but as it is Warsman feels little more than a distant fascination, as though he were watching another body construct itself. Once upon a time, a brutish ogre and a beautiful woman met and fell in love. Absently, he notes the make and the colour of the car that blindsided them, the fraction of its number plate his ocular sensors could catch. Then...
SENSORY SYSTEMS AVAILABLE. REBOOTING: AURAL SENSORS. . . SUCCESSFUL.
The first thing he hears, beyond the sick thump of his pulse, is a high-pitched beeping. At first he wonders if it isn't some internal alarm, but his sensors are still adjusting themselves and a moment later he's swamped by distant voices, footsteps, an ambulance in the distance. After his silence it's almost too much to take in, and in a way he's grateful for the distraction because if it weren't there he might have to recognise that black morass of emotion he's been secretly acquiring in the backwaters of his heart. He's alive and he's in hospital. That's more than he could ever have hoped to ask for.
Only when the knowledge comes that his olefactory system is online does he truly feel its weight, like a kick in the gut. In the air he smells shampoo, and skin, and the blush of makeup, and in the chaos he hears a sob- and he knows all of it better than he knows himself.
no subject
À̢T̴̀͞T͝È͠M̶̸P҉Ţ҉I͜N̶͏G͠͡ ͏̡R͘ȨB͠OO̧T͜
AT͝T́EM̵̨PT̵I̕͏Ń̡͟G͞
R͜E͠C̵O̧N͠F͟IG̡UŖA͝T̶ION̡ ̴SU͠CC͞ES͞S͜FUL̷. INIT͝IATE ̀REP̕AI͞R͞ S̢EQU̸EN͡C̛E?
. . . . .
Warsman is incapable of pinpointing the precise moment when awareness finally broke through the fog of that endless nothing; it's like opening his eyes in a dark room, like having the temperature slowly raised in a bath. Imperceptible. Even as his mind begins to warm over again he can't seem to make it snag on anything. All around him is little more than an absence, smooth and resistant to the blind ministrations of his consciousness in the way of deep space, that silent cage. A matrix.
Within, though: life. Or electricity. Don't try to tell him they aren't the same thing. It's the only way he can be sure that he is at all- or, indeed, that he is a he. But it's starting to stream back to him now, that he is, and sooner or later (he can't tell which) a name emerges from the hypertrophic thrummings of his cerebral cortex: WARSMAN. He is a sophisticated robo-choujin wrestler whose functionality is at a little less than 12.23%, his name is Warsman.
And the last thing he has has recorded is impact.
From there, as his memory core repairs every fractured bit of data, it's only a matter of watching the complex web of thoughts and feelings weave itself. It would kill him stone cold if he were capable of really taking it in, but as it is Warsman feels little more than a distant fascination, as though he were watching another body construct itself. Once upon a time, a brutish ogre and a beautiful woman met and fell in love. Absently, he notes the make and the colour of the car that blindsided them, the fraction of its number plate his ocular sensors could catch. Then...
SENSORY SYSTEMS AVAILABLE. REBOOTING: AURAL SENSORS. . . SUCCESSFUL.
The first thing he hears, beyond the sick thump of his pulse, is a high-pitched beeping. At first he wonders if it isn't some internal alarm, but his sensors are still adjusting themselves and a moment later he's swamped by distant voices, footsteps, an ambulance in the distance. After his silence it's almost too much to take in, and in a way he's grateful for the distraction because if it weren't there he might have to recognise that black morass of emotion he's been secretly acquiring in the backwaters of his heart. He's alive and he's in hospital. That's more than he could ever have hoped to ask for.
Only when the knowledge comes that his olefactory system is online does he truly feel its weight, like a kick in the gut. In the air he smells shampoo, and skin, and the blush of makeup, and in the chaos he hears a sob- and he knows all of it better than he knows himself.
Elle.]