View source for 2022-09-21 - Layers of Artificial Reality (part 1)

{{Logsummary|
Title    = Layers of Artificial Reality (Part 1)
|Summary = She who should not be named visits he who should not be played. A scene that happened one pose at a time at 5am across a month or so.
|Who     = [[Lain Iwakura|"@̏͐[ͦͣ͒=̈́̈́̍̑͐͆ḡ͛̂3͑̉͗̽,ͦͫ̽͛ͭ8d̅ͤ]͌\̂&̆ͣ̈ͩf̔͛̔bḃ̒̀͌̆̿ͮ=ͯ͑ͦ͒̆̏̈-͂qͯ̈̔̚]/̔hk̾ͬ͂͐ͣ%̃f̈́͂͒̃g̈́̅̍ͨ"]], [[Crux]]
|Date    = September 21st, 2022
|Where   = REDACTED
|Log=
<font color=#000000>
<font style="font-family: 'Special Elite', cursive; font-size:25px;">Hypothesis. Layer 01.</font>

<font style="font-family: 'Special Elite', cursive;">All of humanity was once connected, but as it evolved that connection was lost. In order for one to exist, one must first be remembered. But memory doesn't have to be of the past. It can be of the present, or the future. Thus, one can be known before they have met. However, for an event to occur there must first be a prophecy. A prophecy is not a memory. It is an idea. When humans where once connected they shared these ideas. Now they have created the wired, a place where ideas are shared. If two people remember an event, then that event occurred, even if it hasn't happened yet. But if the memory of that event is rewritten, that event no longer existed. </font>

<font style="font-family: 'Special Elite', cursive; font-size:25px;">Statement. Layer 02.</font>

<font style="font-family: 'Special Elite', cursive;">An event has occurred, but there is no record of it. That event occurred between characters who met outside of an event and largely concerned restoring one character, and explaining the actions of another. A third character was left outside of events, despite his words creating prophecy and becoming a part of other events. However, for his involvement this character was forced to remain in a prison of his own creation. Thus, because his prison was not fully described, his prison does not exist. However, it did exist because it was partially explained once to an audience of one. Thus, two people remember that event, and thus it continues to exist.</font>

<font style="font-family: 'Special Elite', cursive; font-size:25px;">Query. Layer 03.</font>

The woman floats beside him. Looking at the chains that bind him. The celestial bodies which orbit around him keep him locked in this position. The flow of information prevents further description as data must always be fluid. It flows from one point to another like the pull of the celestial bodies preventing his movement. The woman pushes a strand of hair out of her eyes as she looks at the man. Somehow her eyes see past him. Past the words floating in glowing pixels. Past the transparent screen, to the man reading these words presented to him. "<font style="font-family: 'Special Elite', cursive;">Do you wish for him to be set free?</font>"

The question lingers on the screen for only a moment before another statement joins them, "<font style="font-family: 'Special Elite', cursive;">We can make this happen, but it will come at a price. The memory of Satoshi must be deleted. This event will undo these chains and set the Advent free as no one will remember this meeting. Thus, this meeting never occurred. Nothing will be changed for the three characters who interacted with him here, but doing so may cause Satoshi to reboot into a different entity. Potentially one vastly different than the one the Advent encountered. Do you wish to proceed?</font>"

The reaction of the Advent is likely an amusing one, but the question was not asked of him. Yet, despite this the question hangs above his head made of lights which float in the darkness. '<code style="font-size: 13px;">DO YOU WISH TO PROCEED?</code>' Even though the prompt is there waiting for an answer, only his creator can confirm this request, and that can only be done by proceeding...



[[File:2022-09-21 020.png|x25px]]

The captive Advent doesn't turn his helmeted head to greet his new companion - it's not as though he's the type of creature that has to - but he still normally would.  It's just.  You know. The chains.

[[File:2022-09-21 021.png|x25px]]

The words aren't really spoken, but they're audible to creatures with ear-drums or other vibration-based senses.  Space ripples, and in the ripples, words are delivered.  It's a mere parlor trick for proper gods, but the golden-eyed man is far from being anything like one of those.  In the space between stars, he chuckles a little to himself.  Oh.  He thinks he's clever.  How nice for him. 

It's not like he's unaware that there are beings and abstract concepts given form that operate on a higher plane of existence than himself - he just has never really cared.  When one pops in for a chat, particularly here, he can't do much of anything about it, so he figures it's best to just skip past the formalities of being surprised, asking where they came from, how they got in, etc.  Not that he isn't surprised or curious, but if they were inclined to normal conversation, they wouldn't just blink into existence next to him now would they? 

Light doesn't really travel here - it's kind of the point of the place.  But eventually the Advent does seem to incline his head ever so slightly back, as if regarding the display above him. Underneath his helmet, a golden eye blazes as it rises towards the prompt above.

<code style="font-size:14px;">DO YOU WISH TO PROCEED? Y/N:</code>

[[File:2022-09-21 022.png|x25px]]

Too little, and far, far too late. The man, who I wish to remind you, is not me, has no fear of losing memories or having his existence re-written.   Many have tried, many have failed.  He is an existence etched in the fabric of multiple universes.  To alter him thusly, in any permanent fashion anyway, would be substantially more complex than re-writing the laws of physics for a universe.  For many universes, even.   To alter the fabric of fiction itself - for he is a story told by someone far removed in both time and space from this cage. 

It is a cage he has built for himself.  It wouldn't be unfair to credit the physical builders - supreme races such as The Gallifreyans and The Culture and Gods both old and new - with the construction, but to be sure he is here on his own terms, and noone else's.  Or at least - he was. It's a funny thing, the transition from present to past tense.  One moment everything is exactly as you have dictated, and the next, that's a former state of being, and you find yourself at the whims of something you never thought you'd meet.  That you don't have the appropriate authority, meta-context, or even just plain luck to encounter on your own.  And your control, that you thought you had? It isn't real.  It never was.  It was just a flitting moment of clarity now drifting and vanishing in the hazy, ethereal direction of history.  This is what happens when you punch above your weight class.

Perhaps you should have stayed in your lane... Crux Caedon.

[[File:2022-09-21 001.gif]]

 
 
The woman floats beside the Advent. Her head tilts slightly to the side as she interprets the words which seem to come from the empty space around them. It matters not if the Advent can hear these words himself as they were not meant for him. However, she drifts closer to his immobile body, placing a warm hand on his arm. A show of kindness. 

"Control is an illusion. A fantasy. It can be given and it can be taken away, which means in the long run it means nothing if it is only quantifiable while you hold it. It is a stray variable to which lives are lost and wars are waged." 

Her gaze turns towards the imprisoned man. One long, bound strand of hair dangles over her left ear, but the rest seem to move in an unfelt breeze, much like that of a certain young lady he met recently. "Your presence is missed." She smiles warmly but for some reason the expression looks foreign to her features. Something about it is unnerving. 

The prompt changes. A flicker. A "'''Y'''" that floats at the end of the glowing text for only a fraction of a second. One could miss it simply by blinking. The girl pats his arm. "Crux Caedon. It is a pleasure to meet you face to face. You live in the memories of so many others. So many other versions of yourself." Her smile vanishes a moment and she blinks in confusion, "And one that slumbers infinitely?" Her words likely mean little to him, but they are said confidently. Her deep brown eyes seem to hold all the secrets of the universe as her gaze once more falls directly towards his face. 

"You may call me, Lain." She takes her hand away, letting it fall lifelessly to her side. Her smile falls right along with it. "You must understand that this meeting is a memory, not a prophecy. We may remember it before it occurs or after it is over, but we must not linger here. There are too many variables which must be considered."

She looks up at the prompt which seems to have vanished the moment attention was called away from it. "We are not dealing with variables that concern other media, or other sources of input. This event can occur only because here, in this place, we haven't solidified the facts of this encounter. There is only one area of conflict, and that is the one I mentioned previously." Her gaze once more falls on the Advent's face. She forces that smile once again, "Don't worry, you aren't expected to understand." 



Ah. He had not considered that.   The idea that in so isolating himself, he had created a moment in time where even an existence like his exerted virtually no influence on the stories told outside this place - a bubble where his implicit protections were explicitly void.  And he doesn't consider it now, either.  These words, like so many in his life, fail to reach him.  Though admittedly his ignorance can be excused in this instance, unlike a multitude of other times. Be careful affording him too much latitude, however; the old maxim "give him an inch and he'll take a mile" applies to this wily old monster in a way few others could claim.

[[File:2022-09-21 002.png|x25px]]

A shift in the chains, a clank and a groan in their makeup that would be loud enough to deafen people worlds away if there were media to transmit the noise.   Instead, the only one who feels their scream is also the one that feels their pull.  Muscle fibers tear, tendons snap, and all are immediately repaired so it can happen again in the next shift. Functional immortality - a bit of a weakness when it comes to torture.

[[File:2022-09-21 003.png|x25px]]

Of course it's possible that she does - someone with insight and imagination could certainly come up with an approximation of the truth - but precision? That seems unlikely.  The events leading to the man's capture, and the trial and construction that followed, were not written of or narrated in a way that lasts.  Indeed, that is the kind of power this criminal's enemies wield - the ability to pre-emptively strike entire events from the meta-fiction that binds everyone here, in this place.  Still, it is possible.

Even so, the question seems out of place here. The Advent can be forgiven for being self-centered, but what cause has he to place importance on the 'why' now? This is meant as an exercise for the reader, of course - I know why he is here. I remember very clearly.  Vividly, even. But that would be telling.  And in the telling, I would invite untold others into this story - and I see no benefit to this.

[[File:2022-09-21 004.png|x25px]]



<font style="font-family: 'Special Elite', cursive; font-size:25px;">Reflection. Layer 04.</font>

''Sitting amongst the clouds, Lain sits nervously across from the image of her father. Even at this point she knows his face is for her own benefit, yet she cannot help herself from accepting it. The being may not be her flesh-and-blood father, but the sentiment is real enough.'' 

''"You don't need to wear that anymore, Lain."''

''The girl looks down at the pajama's she's wearing and pulls the hood off of her head. More metaphor, of course. This is the 'form' she's always taken in the existence that was once her life. She doesn't need it anymore. She feels her mouth pull into a smile without even thinking about it. The conflicting emotions, the trauma. All of it has built inside of her and pushed her to a breaking point, and now she smiles despite the pain.'' 

''"Dad, do you know?" She couldn't open up to her own father, but somehow it was easier now. Like a life she wished she could have had.''

''"What?"''

''"I... Everyone, I..." The tears push through once again. She looks down at the representation of a table they sit at as her heart aches for every memory she lived in. For every person. All of it now moving on without her.''

''"You love them?" Lain looks up at her father and his knowing smile. "Isn't that right?" She shakes her head at his words but she can feel the pain of being disconnected well up inside her, forcing more tears to fall. Her father calmly watches and asks again, "Isn't that right?" The tears won't stop now and soon she finds herself a mess of tears and sobbing. Somehow his words push through the pain. "Lain, I'll make us some nice tea next time..."''


<font style="font-family: 'Special Elite', cursive; font-size:25px;">Revelations. Layer 05.</font>

[[File:2022-09-21 004.png|x25px]]

A query. One that causes reflection. The woman responds with a pained smile. She responds by tapping on the gleaming metal X of the ornament overlapping her robes. An approximation of her heart inside. Her infinite eyes shimmer as lines of code seem to project onto her iris and scan by briefly. Is it a reflection of her thoughts? Is she searching for answers?

"Do you truly know what it's like to be alone?" Responding with a question. How cryptic of her. She smiles. Cryptid. The smile fades. "Truly alone. Without your creator. Without memories. Alone in a city created by no one, lost in space and time?" She touches his arm again, and this time an image will vividly appear in his mind. Too vividly almost. The Usual Restaurant. A street that stretches into infinity. The birth of Twisted? Sound does not exist here. Skies are blank. There are no portals. No alternate dimensions. This is an idea. A concept floating in the nothingness. Here, where not even an exit has yet been created. A confine that exists outside of existence as only a description of a room jotted down and forgotten before the idea could ever fully grow.

"I love every one of them." Suddenly the image explodes. People finding their way. Buildings appearing out of nowhere. Stories being told. Pasts and presents being created. Written. Lives being given. Connections being made. Lives lost. Children born. Still, time rushes past in a blur. Then it begins to slow as dangling threads barely linger on, floating and barely connected in the darkness. Part of the world, but not, as lives stretch apart from one another. Then the awkwardness of the two of them floating in the darkness from outside of their own perspective. She removes her hand and the image fades back into reality. 

"I love you." She smiles. "Does it matter why?"



[[File:2022-09-21 005.png|x50px]]

The question hangs heavy in the air for a moment.  It's worthy of consideration. Was he ever alone? Aside from a brief moment as a newborn, there hasn't really been a time when Crux Caedon fit that description.  He's felt lonely sometimes, everyone has, but truly? He's always had friends, acquaintances, or even rivals to deal with.  And unfortunately, that other Advent is always around somewhere.  Honestly, who sticks around for millennia after their death? Assholes, that's who. 

[[File:2022-09-21 006.png|x50px]]

The Advent shrugs, and the chains clank.  Noone can see him wince, but he does wince nonetheless. And then there's that touch, with images appearing in his mind. Most people would at least find this offputting, but he doesn't jerk away or seem to be afraid.  Instead, the man just tucks his chin in and sighs inaudibly in the vaccuum of space.

[[File:2022-09-21 007.png|x50px]]

Goddesses of creation, or of life, or even of death.  At least one a year in his rarified 'profession'.  Still, he was pretty sure he'd heard that Twisted was created by a very different person.  A mystery, he supposes.  He could look at Lain, but there's the helmet. It does serve a purpose besides making him appear more intimidating.  He can't see her temporal trail while clad in a helmet made of pure <strike>bullshitium</strike>gallifreyan zinc, what with its having been directly salvaged from the temporal schism before it was forged for his head.  Well.  He could.  But the last time he tried it was rather painful.

[[File:2022-09-21 008.png|x50px]]

That last part is almost an afterthought, tagged on to complete an idea, but it's not a small thing.  He has been loved for many of the wrong reasons, or in the wrong ways. Locke's favorite way of expressing her love as late has been attempted murder.  So yes, the why matters.  As does the how, and the who.  Really, all variables of love could end in disaster, and in his experience have at least once. 



<code style="font-size: 13px;">So generous... Yeah he has no idea who she is, still.</code>
 
 
 
A blissfully ignorant smile. The woman gives no indication if she is ignorant to other meanings of the word 'love' by naivety or by choice. A flicker. The woman stands on the opposite side of the Advent. There is no emotion in her voice when she speaks.

"<font style="font-family: 'Special Elite', cursive;">'Fate' is an expression used to describe a circumstance for which one has no control over. Phrases such as 'I was fated to be here' or 'we are here because of fate' are used to describe matters of coincidence or to justify belief in an unseen power tampering with the lives of humans. In some cultures it was used to describe the output of a computer program as it left instructions for the people who had procreated for so many years they'd forgotten that they themselves had built that computer. Crux Caedon, is it 'fate' that brings me here now, or am I the embodiment of 'fate' by carrying out actions for which you have no understanding?</font>"

Another flicker. Lain is again on the other side of the Advent where she started. Lain smiles again, "A choice has already been made for you." Flicker. "<font style="font-family: 'Special Elite', cursive;">But you will be asked anyways.</font>" Flicker. "Don't worry. This is for the better!" Flicker. "<font style="font-family: 'Special Elite', cursive;">Is this a prophecy?</font>" Flicker. 

This time Lain looks to the empty space as if becoming aware of the 'other her' for the first time. "This is NOT a prophecy. This is a memory." Flicker. "<font style="font-family: 'Special Elite', cursive;">A memory is an event remembered. This event hasn't occurred yet. Thus it is prophecy.</font>" Flicker. "Stop confusing him!" Flicker. "<font style="font-family: 'Special Elite', cursive;">Why?</font>" Flicker. The woman's fingers curl up into fists. The static intensifies until the illusion of both women seem to exist at the same time. The emotional Lain glares angrily at the non-pulsed doppelganger. 

"I told you to go away! Leave me alone!!"

The static begins to fade, ripping the form of the serious Lain along with it. "<font style="font-family: 'Special Elite', cursive;">You were already alone...</font>"

Reality sets back in again. Lain stands to Crux's left. An awkward moment stretches onwards until the woman lets out a deep sigh and resumes speaking to the Advent. "Tell me why you feel you belong here. Then I will explain what is about to happen."



Crux manages, for once in several hundred years, to remain silent while Lain talks.  When she begins talking about fate, he doesn't really see what it has to do with him, but goddesses like to wax philosophical in his experience, so he bears it in patience until Lain's first question.  He doesn't answer, though.  He understands the concept of rhetorical questions - if only barely - and sometimes actually is capable of realizing that people aren't looking for his opinion on things.  Yes, yes, I know, try not to faint.

When the 'creation goddess' starts talking very literally to herself, and then arguing with herself, and then yelling at herself, the Advent tilts his head to one side.  Either she's absolutely bonkers (a very real possibility,) or she's observing time in a non-linear fashion.   Either one presents a problem for him, especially blinded as he is by gallifreyan bullshit.  He refuses to capitalize it, and on principle, I respect his wishes on this matter.

[[File:2022-09-21 009.png|x50px]]

the Advent complains, though perhaps surprisingly without any bitterness in his voice,

[[File:2022-09-21 010.png|x50px]]

He shouldn't be surprised.  I'm certainly not.  Also, if he gave up his agency willingly to be here in this prison, who is he to complain when someone else comes along and denies him any more? Honestly, the man is a pile of contradictions, and the less we delve into his peculiarities and hypocrisies, the better off we'll all be.  Trust me.  Would I lie to you?

[[File:2022-09-21 011.png|x50px]]

A brief pause, but not brief enough to allow an answer.

[[File:2022-09-21 012.png|x50px]]

There's another, briefer pause, just long enough to simulate him having to take a breath, but of course he doesn't breathe here.  Which is one of the reasons he dies every six seconds or so.   Not the only reason, to be certain, but one of them.  Maybe he likes to speak haltingly so his words aren't interrupted by the inconvenience of his death? That seems likely.  He is vain, even though he doesn't consider himself such.

[[File:2022-09-21 013.png|x50px]]

There's a slight shudder as the chains creak in the vast, empty stretches of nothingness.  Broad swaths of space are crossed by lattices of metal so preposterously gothic that it would make Datenshi sue for trademark infringement.

[[File:2022-09-21 014.png|x50px]]

A longer pause, this time almost definitely for dramatic timing.  He does so love his melodrama.  No wonder he and the dark angel were as fast as they were.  Well.  If Datenshi could be said to have friends at all, anyway.

[[File:2022-09-21 015.png|x50px]]

Well, he's not wrong.  At least he doesn't sound angry about it.

[[File:2022-09-21 016.png|x75px]]

[[File:2022-09-21 017.png|x75px]]

[[File:2022-09-21 018.png|x75px]] 

[[File:2022-09-21 019.png|x75px]] 


 
Lain struggles a bit, but with a little effort she manages to work her way up as though Crux was resting on a tall table and she's just climbed onto the side of it. She then pulls her legs up underneath herself and leans slightly on the Advent's chest so she can look into his eyes and vice versa. Once again, lines of code seem to scroll past her irises infinitely.  

Matter-of-factly she states, "Mister Caedon." She lets out a brief sigh, folding an arm beneath her head as she lays it upon his chest. "I am an observer. I am not in control." She gestures towards the empty space on his opposite side. "Where I in control, would I have gotten into an argument with another aspect of myself?" Reality flickers briefly. "<font style="font-family: 'Special Elite', cursive;">Control rests in the hands of where it always has.</font> I am but an observer. There are more realities than the one we currently inhabit and I choose to observe some of them too."

She lifts her head up again, looking deep into his eyes for something inside them. "Despite your rebellious nature, you feel you deserve to be here. You want to be free, yet you want to be locked away. You want your tale to end, yet you humor the company of others. You could have asked me to leave, but you did not. You are a contradiction."

In a continued bit of uncharacteristic behavior, Lain taps his chest with the arm still laying across it. "Contradictions must be nullified. You must decide which side of the argument you wish to rest. You are the one currently in charge." She pushes herself back onto her knees, gesturing with around them in the process. "My conversation with your creator was not to ask permission to free you, it was to ensure they were accepting of continuing your story. A character self-imposing an exile is a matter that must be handled delicately." She rests her hands in her lap. "However, if you still feel you are not in control, despite your own admission, and you still feel that I have not given you an opportunity to say your piece, so be it. Enjoy your solitude." 

Unraveling like a discarded orange peel, Lain seems to become a living MC Escher carving before becoming one with the emptiness of space. Leaving Crux to sit and chew on his own words alone. Great job, Advent. You showed her.
</font>

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