《Red Beans》7.

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Our life is routine at that point. I ‘sleep’ while she performs experiments at night, before being shooed off to Shopkeep’s store in the morning. She comes for me before lunch, and the day proceeds as per normal. I still don’t quite understand why I have to leave in the mornings, though… Technomancy is so strange.

Finally, it is the day before she meets with the investor. After my morning toast, I head for the door. “I’m off.”

“Wait,” she calls out. “Come back here.”

I turn back, “What?”

“Do you want to stay here today? You can still sleep, but just… stay in the room.”

“... are you sure? Isn’t it… ‘work,’ that you do in the mornings?”

“Yes, but…” she gulps. “I’ll never be respected as a mage if I can’t perform in front of an audience, no matter how small.” She pats the nest of blankets and pillows we call a bed. “So, would you like to…?”

I sit without hesitation…

“Thank you.”

… and without any other response.

This time, she does not turn her back to me - instead, faces me directly. The same process is as follows: by using discarded technologies, both old and new, she attempts to create a being. It fills me with even more fear this time, being able to see her face as she speaks in tongues. The expressions she makes seem to have some degree of dissonance with her words, her not words, the beeps and boops of the machinery around her. There are times where her eyebrows furrow and she is filled with anger, then there are times where her expression softens and she appears lonely and sad.

I myself, do not practice magic. I find it an oddity that despite its promise, has too many negatives to outweigh the positives for me to handle on my own. I had a personal mage back in Demonrealm… and they outlived their usefulness. But now I regret not finding out the true extent of their use, for instead they could have served me in a different type of magic.

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Just by watching her move, noticing the slightest twitch of her fingers and the smallest change in expression, I can feel how much of one’s self is poured into magic. This explains why certain mages are so private and unforgiving; so much of themselves is exposed bare through performing spells and whatnot. When you give all of yourself, you’re too tired to give it to people who won’t appreciate it.

I hope she sees me as someone who appreciates magic and in return, her.

Her eyes open and instead of eyes, I see but the hollow abyss. Blacked and empty, with flashing lights, words and numbers flying across. Words no longer tumble from her lips, but instead sounds akin to an old modem starting up.

I am filled with panic, but… is this what’s supposed to happen? Is this normal? Is this what the investor will see?

“This isn’t you,” I murmur. “This isn’t…”

And she responds in louder beeps, and more static.

Do I… do I stop it? Is there anything I can do? What’s the process? What if this is part of the spell - ‘programs,’ she called it - and I’d be interrupting it without reason?

Her beeps get louder. The static is deafening.

Despite the hollowness of her eyes, tears prick at them and spill onto her cheeks.

Not knowing what else to do, I get up and hold her to my chest without another thought. Her tears stain my shirt.

“Please,” I mumble. “Please stop.”

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