Post by ZeroRebellion on Aug 22, 2017 3:58:55 GMT -5
A figure that had not been seen for many years made its way to a rusted-door, his frame guarded only by a brown traveling-cloak. This place has not seen him for as long as he has not seen it. With care, a hand reached-out for the door and gently pried it free from its frame. This place was built in the earliest days, unlike the later facilities which had to fall so far into the well of memory.
Inside he walked about in dark rooms, illuminated only by the light of a lantern and the sun from outside. Carefully he ran his hands across dusty picture-frames and old guest logs. From room to room, he recounted the days.
In a large hanger sat the empty shell of a blue and red machine, great in size.
"Is there anyone left who remembers when this shell housed the spirit of a great being?"
He glanced through the archives, fighting-back the sadness over the number and size of the holes in this place's history.
"So much gone from the old logs...so much that only exists in memories now."
On a wall in one corridor he passed-by a weapon. It was a grenade-launcher; it was from what at the time was a famous incident. Avoiding long-abandoned banana-peels on the floor, he strode into a room with aging pictures and directions to various personal-quarters.
A picture of a figure with a firey reputation. A being from out of this world with quite the..."following." A young man with his family. A passionate planner. A tricky, green-machine with a taste for a certain tropical-fruit. A somewhat poetic persona. And there were more, though he struggled to recall everything, he could still feel the presence of the former inhabitants.
There were other pictures as well. Living machines with animal forms, an old friend with a never-solved break from conventional sanity, an...a familiar woman, one whose conflict with a brother once defined a period in the history of this place.
Even the old game-room was there, in a way, though some sections had collapsed. Truly, this was a bygone time.
With a heavy-sigh at the nostalgia, a smile crept through the regret. The regret at having fallen-away before the old haunt had come to such a state. Regret for being one of the first to fade away. Had he feared returning? Was he not able to work his mind through his new state to return? Was he conflicted about being who he had been, or ruining his image of his beloved place by returning as someone new? What was it that kept him away? Like the pieces he had failed to hold-on to, the reason was not clear in his memory anymore. But through it all, there was that glimmer of a time when this place and the friends that gathered here were like a vessel that he rode through a crucial time. Yet still, it brought a tinge of regret to think that they would never be seen again.
With one last-look around the large entry-room, he looked over at the decrepit computer with its screen mounted on the wall. Anything left in its memory would likely not last long...still, perhaps on another surface, this message carved might one-day be seen by an old friend.
"Hey guys, it's old ZR. You uh, remember me at all? I try to remember you, as best I can these days. Maybe it's stupid, but even as I age, the days spent here always feel like an important marker in my memory. Maybe we were just killing-time, maybe the marks left on our thoughts shaped things later down the line...who know for certain?
Either way, even though I know that time will never come back, I'm not broken enough to be like that, I'd still like to know:
Are you guys still out there? What have you been up to since? I didn't know many people I could call friends before I came here, even in my life away from all of this.
Are you still out there somewhere we can meet again? I'd like to think that's true. I hope that eventually, I can send out a message to you all, somewhere else where you might be more likely to see it. And when you do, if that ever comes, you'll know it's me. And if you choose to reach out to me, if we still share those memories, I'll know it's you. I'll be waiting for you."
With another heavy-sigh, he signed the message and stepped away, back to the entrance, that rusted door. He could not help but take one last look around, his hood finally pulled back. There stood not the blond-haired duplicate of a machine from another world, but he as himself; the darker-haired, glasses-wearing man. Of all the things to cross his mind if someone were to ask, a joke from a friend sprang. 'When Archer grows a mustache, he looks sort like a cartoon-version of your dad.'
He chuckled at the thought and hung his head. 'Why the heck would I think of that now?'
He turned away to leave, but just before he did, he glanced back for the final time, pointing a finger-gun back into the old halls as he said-aloud the signature at the end of his last message.