“Have YOU ever seen death? Have YOU ever been about to die? Does that not make YOU afraid? Are YOU not afraid? As I tower over YOU, are YOU not afraid?”

Venaim 2:1-5, Priest Codex Version

“What is it like… To be a human?”

“What is it like… To be made of flesh?”

“What is it like… To be able to breathe?”

“What is it like… To feel?”

To each question from the cold, heartless voice, there was no response. No response at all. Not even a sigh of discontent or annoyance, or even the sound of disagreement. There was no response, nothing at all.

“What is it like… To have a heart?”

“What is it like… To truly think to yourself?”

“What is it like… To see with eyes?”

“What is it like… To be a human?”

Still, no response. What the thing was talking to was still and almost motionless, yet they still showed signs of life. They sat against a wall; a dark, cold wall, made out of pure metal. Their breaths were staggered, and as they looked down at the ground they paid no attention to the thing that was looking down at them.

“Why do you not… Answer me?”

Silence.

“I want… You to answer… Me.”

Silence.

“Do not deprive… Me of… A response.”

Pure silence.

After this silence a noise came from being; clinking, scraping, bending of metal. It was a satisfying sound, a sound that would make anyone shiver in their skin, and it was so loud that it would cause pain to anyone's ears. Shrill and piercing. The monster moved to its side, looking at something that lay next to it, and after doing so it turned back to the figure that sat up against the wall that lay in front of it.

“Do you… Wish for something?”

No response.

“Are you… In need… Of something?”

Still, no response.

“I see that… You breathe... Your breaths are… Staggered… Are you… Alright?”

Stillness.

“I wish… To… Take care… Of you…”

The figure then turned its head, looking away from the mechanical beast in front of it. Then, the figure wiped precipitation off of their face; they were sweating. As cold as it was, and though they had a minute amount of feeling in some of their appendages, they were sweating. Their sweat was not prominent, though it gave them a slight glossy look, though barely any light touched them.

“What… I wish… For you to… Listen…”

Though barely any sound came from the figure against the wall, it was obvious that they would have made a sound if they could have. They would have called out for help, though it was almost as if they had accepted defeat.

But they did not.

The grotesque, amalgamation of metal turned around, or, it seemed as if it turned around; the front and back of the machine were no different, besides the red, glowing light that identified its “face”. A feeling overcame the figure. A feeling that they were accustomed to, though this time it was strong and prominent.

Fear.

Fear coursed through their veins, eventually coming out of them and going into the room, bouncing off the walls. That primal fear. The fear of impending doom. The fear of death.