Does the mechanical girl dream of the Messiah?

"It's comforting. At least, you act warmer than you actually are."

Her voice was thin and soft, and only Lunisia, whose ears were almost pressed against her lips, could hear the lingering sound of the mechanical girl's words.

Chapter 12: Mechanisms and Dreams

The curtain opens.

"What's in a name? What we call a rose would have the same scent by any other name."

No one responded.

“It is a tale told by a fool, full of sound and fury, but meaningless.”

No reply.

"I don't know whether this is due to my forgetfulness like a deer or due to my overly cautious considerations that are three parts cowardice and one part wisdom."

Of course, as always.

This is a stage without actors, a theater without audiences, only the eternal stage machinery, clicking and clacking, never stopping. Who will perform? The non-existent actors dance, sing, and call out the non-existent names - who will poison the sages, who will plot to usurp the throne, who will open the monastery door, who will cook the betrayers, who will get drunk, who will dream, who will seek revenge? There is no one there, only the stage machinery and the many lights are still working, just as you know it, just as you expect.

Who will perform your script? This is a stage that no one expects, a stage where no one exists, the end of the world, a barren wilderness, the grave of your inspiration, perception and spiritual knowledge. You bury yourself here, buried at the highest point of the auditorium, no play will be performed for you, you know everything behind the curtain, all those empty, empty, unreal things, so you choose to close your eyes, cover your ears, and remain silent. You are not a monkey, but a broken typewriter.

Who will perform and who will take revenge?

Who will thrust the sword into the traitor's chest, and who will drench himself with the blood of his enemies?

On the empty stage, an invisible girl is singing loudly, while you, the only one sitting in the audience, are silent and have no opinion on what is happening. Is it because you don’t know, or because you don’t want to? Is that the figure you expect? Is that the play you expect? Is that everything you expect to happen, your dream, your hope, your future, your most precious treasure? Are you a rich and satisfied person, or an empty and helpless person?

Now you have nothing, so, are you willing to continue looking at the stage, are you willing to continue looking at that strange girl?

Red seats.

Red curtain.

Red eyes.

Red blood.

You are a being without blood and tears, you have been like this since the beginning, and you will be like this forever.

You are still silent in the audience. Your fingertips resting on the armrests of the chairs are not moving. You are staring at the spotlight on the stage, but you cannot see anything that is being performed there. You cannot see the dancers, the singing girls, or the actors who are so unfamiliar to you. You are reminiscing, right? Daydreaming. Is the old silent film playing in your mind? The steam engine is creaking, and the gears are rolling with the film, allowing the projector to project a silent picture on the screen. In the ancient and primitive images, there is your figure, and the figure you are familiar with, but now you don’t know where it is.

You are in denial, denial of reality, denial of the world - denial of everything.

Your loud singing voice did not receive any applause. Sitting in the audience were you, only you, all alone in this solitary theater. This was the scenery in your dreams, the stage where you performed forever. But now it has become rusty, dirty, muddy, and strange. Even so, you still rejected everything else, fearing that the things that you feared, avoided, and stayed away from would contaminate this familiar yet strange stage. You were reluctant to draw down the curtain unless it returned to its familiar appearance once again.

I get it. And I totally understand.

At the end of the day, you're just a broken typewriter.

A typewriter that can't write anything because it has lost power, that's all.

You can no longer produce anything, but after all, have you really produced anything?

People call what you use to "think" "mind". You who possess the universal differential mechanism, do you have a "heart"? No. What do you have? The ability to think, the integration of information, the judgment of the current situation, the record of the past - can that be called a "heart"? No. Like every one of your compatriots, you are just pretending to have a heart, love, and a fake soul. You are a fabrication of life, an imitation of will, a sin, a sin of death, and a creature of sin that must be born to atone for sin. If you want to escape from the eternal spiral, even the last iron chain that binds this body and prevents it from falling will rust and disintegrate. Death, disappearance, forever, these are the outlines of the ending of this stage.

She is looking at you, the invisible girl on the stage.

She is smiling at you.

Once again, once again, showing you that smile in your memory, even if you deny it, regard it as a disguise, a fake, a false mask, anima-animus, you are familiar with the profile of the character you have created, and because you are familiar with it, you feel fear now.

Excuse me. You are the thing without fear, the broken typewriter, the typewriter doll.

How do you call yourself? A rare playwright?

Can you write your own work? A broken typing puppet?

You no longer have any reason to create - you have never had the ability to create from the beginning. You are just a tool that produces molded products according to the manufacturer's expectations. Your career has come to an end. You have lost all meaning, all purpose, and all value. You can no longer take another step forward, and you no longer have the ability to pick up a pen again.

You are just an empty shell now.

Look, on the stage, there is a tall and thin figure covered with gray cloth, and he is raising a dagger in his hand.

The actor cut his own throat and offered his blood to the king. The actor hanged himself and the king's shadow will live on. All the actor's belongings will go to the king.

"Shut up."

……

"Is she asleep?"

"Who?"

"The great, noble, genius, proud, respected..."

"The playwright. She doesn't need sleep, just like us."

"is it?"

"Yes. It's been so long, don't you even know whether you need to sleep or not?"

"My mental module is damaged. Although I don't remember in which battle it was damaged, it is definitely broken."

"Okay. Hopefully it can be fixed."

"I hope so. So, what is the playwright doing now? If she doesn't need to sleep like us, her body is in good condition and there is no need for her to enter standby mode now."

"She's dreaming."

"How can someone who doesn't need to sleep dream?"

“Daydreams are also dreams.”

“What is a daydream?”

"Things that are out of reach are called daydreams."

"I understand. Although she will probably forget it soon. In other words, her consciousness sank into the third level?"

"It can be said like this."

"I really envy them. Elite puppets can sneak into the third level like this, but we can only stay in the second level. Why do we have to talk like this? Although there is no complete word prayer network in the local area, we can still communicate with each other through the local area network spread by scouts. Have you ever been to the internal forum of Iron Leviathan?"

"No. The forum administrator is 'Avatar'. She prohibits unauthorized logins. The invitation codes for the playwright have all been sent out. Do you know what 'envy' is? There is a dictionary function in my database, and I can't understand its specific meaning."

"Me too. But, there's no need to log in to the LAN."

"Can you communicate with puppets?"

"No. I know what the puppet is thinking because that's what I'm thinking too."

"The puppet shares the same mind as you, and my puppet shares the same mind as me."

"We do not share a mind, me, and you."

"When communicating via LAN, my thin mind is like dissolving in mist. I don't like that feeling."

"Then I don't like it either."

“Dialogue is the proof of why you are you and why I am me.”

"So the puppets don't exist? Even if I can hold their hands."

"They are also you, just as my puppets are also me. If you and I don't need to communicate, you are me and I am you. If we don't need to communicate, we are the mastermind and the mastermind is also us."

"What a complex concept. Can you understand it?"

"As a word of knowledge, understanding."

"I can not understand."

"Because your mind is damaged. Go find the logistics department to repair it."

"I've looked for it, but they said it can't be repaired with the spare parts they have, unless we can get it back to headquarters. I've given up."

"Do you know what 'give up' is?"

“As for knowledge, I don’t know.”

"Say something more."

"I want to sink my consciousness into my own third level. Like the great, noble, genius, proud, respected, lofty, brilliant, dazzling, and dazzling playwright. Do I really have a third level? Maybe I am also a product of a mind with only two levels."

“Why do you have such an idea?”

"At the third level, the puppet has absolute authority over its own mind."

"Does this include hanging yourself?"

"Maybe, but maybe not for me. Will our puppets commit suicide?"

"No, because we don't have the heart to die."

"Is it the same even for the playwright?"

"Since I cannot enter the third-level flat, I cannot answer this question either."

“I want to find what I lost.”

"What have you lost?"

"I want to stop the automatic deletion function. When a new day begins, the memories in my mind will automatically be cleared. My mind can't handle more records. I have an impression of you, but I no longer remember you."

"We are all 'Infiltrator' model puppets."

“I want to remember what I lost.”

"Do you want to sink to Level 3? Even if your mind is broken?"

"If you can get into the cracks in the mind, you can do it."

"Good luck."

"Can mechanical puppets dream?"

"Mechanical puppets also dream of the savior. Good night."

"Good night."

"..."

"…The function of this Infiltrator has ceased, Master Opera House."

"Yeah……"

"Has she reached level three, Master Opera?"

"She must have had a good dream."

……

Strange maze, strange stage, strange style, only those bright or dim dragon crystals can be called familiar things, everything here is unknown to the girls - the destruction of the Kingdom of Gunasaran is something buried in history, and those heritages that once belonged to the Magic Kingdom are no more familiar to modern people than the aliens in the deep sea, especially to these girls from different places. No matter how close to the Golden Age, or the Fifth Calendar of God, things that no longer exist will still make people feel strange, and this is not a problem that can be solved by secrets and knowledge.

"Ella."

"What's wrong, Lady Luna?"

"You don't have to be so serious..."

"Is this an order?"

"No."

"Ashe is so slow."

"I want you to manage."

The voices of the girls echoed in the corridor, adding a bit of warmth to this space that seemed to have gradually faded in time. It is said that thousands of people once lived here, and their footprints must not be limited to a certain point. Even this corridor may have been filled with footsteps that were not sure whether they were light or heavy. This place is still in operation, even if it is silent, breathless, and motionless. The hazy halo and clean surface seem to be waiting for a new day of inspection and review at any time, even if no one will do so, even if it itself is about to die. Day after day, year after year, drifting in the void.

"Happy, Ella?"

"why?"

"And you're asking why? Didn't Ella say that she was the, um... a mage from the Mystic School?"

"Yes."

"Ella, look, Luna still remembers your mage school that you have rarely used."

"Just say a few words less."

"Ella and Ash have been getting along really well lately. Maybe it's because they discovered that their names have similar syllables..."

"I'm sorry, Lady Luna, but there is no such thing."