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It is a common question he asked himself about machines.
Do they dream?
While the answer is never found to be set in stone between people, there is a definitive answer for him.
No, Aquarius did not dream. He slumbered deeply. His wires and his bright red iris turned off in completion and waited patiently for a time when his shame had finally fled him. Whoever it was, that lone warrior that had shown Aquarius his first defeat, haunted only the waking moments of Aquarius' life. The automaton did not see him once in his sleep. It saw nothingness in its purest form. What that may look like may never be deciphered. For darkness is something. Pearlescent white is something. Aquarius saw nothing.
Years of nothing had only exacerbated the machine's distaste for mortal life. As his eye flickered back to life in the shadowy world of the cave he'd called his tomb, the first thing he remembered was his hatred. A hatred never balanced nor dissuaded by the likes of any hero types. For Aquarius had removed that possibility by burying himself beneath the Hinterlands. In fact; it had only grown as he remembered why he was down here and who had forced his hand into hiding. That warrior, with armor of crimson and a sword of glimmering silver, that had made a fool of his legacy that he had cultivated for generations.
Aquarius rose from his sitting position. His eye met the carvings he'd made so many years ago. The lady pouring a jug of water, and the three waves connected vertically. Reminders of himself, reminders of the constellation he was named from. An omen of he. One he feared as much as the likes of those who encountered him did.
He parsed through his memories. Though only his anger truly showed in the dissection of his mind. He did not remember his creation or his creator. How he gained sentience was too lost on him. All he could muster to pull from his awakening was the fury he felt. His disgust for Arcadia's dissent into revelry and debauchery.
Right, Arcadia. Once a place of regality and ruthless honor now fell corrupt to those in power who preached of a new age to remove it from it's Golden Age. Regicide driven maniacs who dared to impede on the Empire's once great expanse. Eaten by the forest after nigh nine hundred years of virtuous growth. How he loathed the new kingdom, and all that were a part of such a diminished recreation of the place he'd once loved.
It could only have become worse, he felt. That his absence had removed another breath of the old Empire, and he felt a pang of guilt for being such a coward in the face of its descent. It was far from over, though. Now, he'd returned. His fury intensified.
Do they dream?
While the answer is never found to be set in stone between people, there is a definitive answer for him.
No, Aquarius did not dream. He slumbered deeply. His wires and his bright red iris turned off in completion and waited patiently for a time when his shame had finally fled him. Whoever it was, that lone warrior that had shown Aquarius his first defeat, haunted only the waking moments of Aquarius' life. The automaton did not see him once in his sleep. It saw nothingness in its purest form. What that may look like may never be deciphered. For darkness is something. Pearlescent white is something. Aquarius saw nothing.
Years of nothing had only exacerbated the machine's distaste for mortal life. As his eye flickered back to life in the shadowy world of the cave he'd called his tomb, the first thing he remembered was his hatred. A hatred never balanced nor dissuaded by the likes of any hero types. For Aquarius had removed that possibility by burying himself beneath the Hinterlands. In fact; it had only grown as he remembered why he was down here and who had forced his hand into hiding. That warrior, with armor of crimson and a sword of glimmering silver, that had made a fool of his legacy that he had cultivated for generations.
Aquarius rose from his sitting position. His eye met the carvings he'd made so many years ago. The lady pouring a jug of water, and the three waves connected vertically. Reminders of himself, reminders of the constellation he was named from. An omen of he. One he feared as much as the likes of those who encountered him did.
He parsed through his memories. Though only his anger truly showed in the dissection of his mind. He did not remember his creation or his creator. How he gained sentience was too lost on him. All he could muster to pull from his awakening was the fury he felt. His disgust for Arcadia's dissent into revelry and debauchery.
Right, Arcadia. Once a place of regality and ruthless honor now fell corrupt to those in power who preached of a new age to remove it from it's Golden Age. Regicide driven maniacs who dared to impede on the Empire's once great expanse. Eaten by the forest after nigh nine hundred years of virtuous growth. How he loathed the new kingdom, and all that were a part of such a diminished recreation of the place he'd once loved.
It could only have become worse, he felt. That his absence had removed another breath of the old Empire, and he felt a pang of guilt for being such a coward in the face of its descent. It was far from over, though. Now, he'd returned. His fury intensified.