A picture I drew for some fiction I wrote:

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A coarse sensation bled through the hinges of numb flesh, flooding within unfeeling hands. It was a peculiar sensation. A flash of brilliant green light illuminated the otherwise listless walls of an unknown world, but for a moment. A tinge of doubt arose in the mind of its beholder, questioning its purpose, yet girding its mind from unfathomable answers. “Beautiful,” it thought, in an alien dialect. Whether the words were once language, or merely the translation of instinct to understanding, it could not discern. “Beautiful?” it spoke again to itself, within its own mind, trying to grasp the meaning of the word.

The sensation began again, flowing from everywhere. It was less intense this time. Somehow, this disappointed. It was a welcome invasion, to experience. To experience anything was a diversion from the static processes of this guarded mind. A burst of light once more flooded this world, flashing like lightning from the hand of its master. It coiled the strange extension towards its eyes. At once, the knowledge of it - and the knowledge of its own eyes - revealed themselves. As strange as it seemed, the very concept of a corporeal form was an alien one, only a moment ago. Yes, it possessed a body. It was alive.

“Alive?” What was the meaning of this word? The sensation welled within its body again, seeming to distract from the question. The coursing arc of energy once again lit up the small world of the alien’s mind, pulling its consciousness forward. What was this sensation? What was the purpose of it?

Another such sensation, and another flash of light emerged. Between relapses of darkness, it made out the exact shape of its own hand. It was skeletal, it knew, naming the concept. There was something wrong about it, it felt. It could not understand why.

“What am I?” it thought, trying to feel, but finding such a desire paralyzed. Why could it not control its own actions? It had not considered the question until now. Was it in control?

In the distance, there approached a form. It held three dimensions. Until now, the only experiences of the alien were the flat images of light, reflecting off of walls for mere seconds. It was mesmerizing, watching faint hints of green light dance upon the frame of this creature. At once, the alien understood the nature of the physical world, as though torn from the recesses of its own mind.

A peculiar desire followed the realization, compelling the arm of the alien towards this target. “Yes,” the alien quietly hissed aloud, garnering what it interpreted as joy from the sound of its own voice. An arc of lightning immediately leapt forth from its fingertips. The world moved in slow motion as the alien followed the trail of the arc with its eyes, watching it paint a glowing green path to the body in the distance. In a brilliance of dancing colors, the form exploded into a universe of colors, providing new sensations.

“Yes!” it repeated. Impulses shot from its mind to where its vision seemed to originate, instructing the flesh near what it knew as its eyes to contort, helping to form a smile. The impulse failed - once more paralyzed. There was no flesh, it now recalled. It could not smile. It could not feel. Was it meant to?

“Alive,” it muttered to itself, somehow feeling the word held some answer to this question. More forms, like the first, approached. Seeking the same gratification, the alien raised its arm once again. The pulses flew by command, granting solace to the alien that it did, indeed, hold sway over its own body. One form blew in half, while the other fell, merely grazed.

The alien tilted its head to one side, analyzing the reaction. Strange. It considered its machinations, which were not unlike its own, it felt. The body writhed for a moment, blasting a loud, alien dialect. Was it, too, “alive?” Another blast from the hands, and the voice was silenced, forever. Peculiar.

Was that how the alien once existed, it considered. Was this the nature of “flesh?” Was it once so fragile? Were the paralyzed commands of its own mind once meant to instruct such meat, long since stripped from its own form? The well of hidden knowledge seemed to reluctantly reveal its resources.

“Yes,” it spoke, finally braced by understanding. It could not believe that it had not understood its own existence before now. It was one of many such beings. Its vision lurched about, noting other forms. Some resembled the ones it had destroyed, while others were like its own. They seemed to struggle with one another. At once, its hand flew towards new targets, obliterating the weak fleshlings that accosted its kin.

“Yes,” it repeated. “Yes!” Automation fell completely, as memories of its own existence encroached further. Its kin were the Necrontyr, of which it was one of many. Were they, too, possessed by such paralysis? Were each of them in full control of their faculties? Somehow, it felt this was not the case. It was one of few, it knew. Was it alone in this trait? Was it alone in its sentience? Was it simply, alone?

It paused, considering this. The thought should have filled it with fear, possibly confusion, it remembered. Nothing arrived to fulfill these notions. This, too, was a weakness of the flesh, long since stripped away. It began to realize why it found such delight in striking down these meaty creatures. They were weak, inferior. They assaulted the universe in their perversion of true sentience, which was free from animalism. They were reminders of what it once was.

What had the alien once existed as? What was its former life? What was its name?

The question hung in the air, assaulting the alien’s judgment. It seemed to pose more offense to it than any other of its experiences. “Name,” it muttered. No information came. “Name,” it muttered again, striking down another one of the fleshlings.

It delved deeper into its mind, hunting desperately for this information. Why was it so vital? Why did the need to know this single word compel its mind? What was its name?

It was once a great leader, it recalled. Unimportant. It was a general of its fellow Necrontyr. This was still its job - its function. This, too, did not satisfy. What was its name? “The name!” it shouted in its own language, striking down target after target, discovering the act no longer sating.

“Forward!” it heard a voice - much like its own - shout from behind. It turned, noting something - someone - familiar. The being stood, arm aloft, holding a glowing orb, casting its arm as it signaled the others. The other Necrontyr noticed him.

He recalled. Yes, he had once possessed gender. It was an odd concept.

“Welcome home,” the commanding voice of the nearby Necrontyr spoke, wheezing through the purposeless mouth of the creature. Why did they retain such features of their past flesh? Was it a necessary evil, to better shape mental commands meant for old flesh? Or was it some form of aesthetic - of nostalgia?

“Home?” he spoke, wondering.

“Yes,” the other responded, pointing a warscythe into the midst of a group of enemies, an arc of energy flowing from it, into their midst. “Our home, assaulted. Like before.”

“Before,” he recalled, trying to picture the faces of ancient enemies, long since wiped from the face of the universe. How long had he slept? How far flung was his past life, to have forgotten his name? “The ageless ones,” he recalled, knowingly, understanding of what had once been hate fueling the memory of old foes. They had lived long, unlike the Necrontyr, inferior in technology but without the failings of their flesh. Or so he chose to believe. Was this true, he wondered, or some myth of his race? He could no longer mark the difference between the two. How had he - once mortal - become as he was? He had no desire to remember.

“They resemble them,” the Necron Lord - he now recognized - spoke. She lacked the femininity of her past life, he knew somehow. Her gender was indiscernible in this form. She had once been beautiful. “Green. Like their creators.”

“Yes,” he responded, cutting one in two with energy spent from the swipe of a hooked metal finger. Reddish-purple blood spilled forth from its body, splattering into the unwavering eyes of a nearby Necrontyr. “They bleed dissimilarly.”

“Hmph,” the Lord seemed to laugh. He was unsure if it was true amusement, or a mimicry of an old chemical response, or perhaps a forced reaction. She motioned forward once more, another flank of Warriors spilling from the corridors of the cave walls. “You were humorless once.”

“Am I not, now?” he said.

“I can no longer tell,” she said, somehow unconvincingly.

He shook his head, recalling for a moment what it had been like to possess no memory of his former self - no understanding of free will. “Neither can I.” This seemed to offend him, somehow. He could not explain why. “How long has it been?”

The Lord cast her eyes upon him, unfeeling, yet somehow revealing the memory of her sincerity and compassion. He had not explained the nature of his question, yet she knew the answer. “Two years,” she nearly whispered.

Two years was the number for the last memory of his self - the last time he had known what it was to know himself. His body had freely fought and killed for that time, abandoning reason for response. He realized it, now. His race had abandoned instinct for automation. They had abandoned the frailty of flesh for the strength of lifelessness. Were they alive? Was he “alive?”

“How long do I have…” his shell of a body muttered, its words raspy and mechanical. “How long before I forget myself?”

The Lord did not respond. He could not understand why. Returning to the battle, he overlooked the legions before him. He admired the numbers; he admired the strength. Yet, almost certainly, none of them possessed sentience. None knew their name. Was this a strength, or was it a weakness? Was he better off as a mere automaton, or living in this state of mind?

Something beat against the gates of his mind. It demanded what he recalled as fear - fear of losing his mind once more, and fear of living forever, yet ceasing to exist, perpetually. The fear did not come. Whatever operations had once allowed the emotion no longer existed. Was this the result of his design, or the loss of his mind? He looked to the Lord. Was she any different?

She fluidly commanded the thralls. With precision and undying grace she struck down her foes. She was flawless in her operation, peerless in her understanding. There was still something “alive” about her, he thought. She still held her original mind. She was still whole. The weight of aeons was upon her, and still her mind held firm.

“You are still beautiful,” he spoke, barely understanding that he had spoken the words. At once he regretted speaking them, but did not know why.

She paused. Whether she felt some memory of what it was to have emotion, he dare not question. If she did truly remember, it was doubtless a torment. His kind were not meant to live for more than a few decades; to imagine an eternity proved impossible.

He recalled her face - her Necrontyrian face. A feeling followed it, the knowledge of its complex state in its wake. Sadness, pride, love, remorse. Was he experiencing them, or recalling their nature? For a moment, he believed he could truly feel them.

He looked to her a final time. Her eyes were already upon him. The things he was unsure he truly understood, he was certain that she knew. Staring into her eyes, at last, he recalled what it meant to be “alive.” They had loved one another, long ago. Had she withstood these centuries without him? Had she suffered without him, with this shell by her side?

Reason fell. He felt it. For a moment, he no longer understood why his vision was captured by this person. He no longer knew who she - it - was. He clamored to maintain his hold on sentience. Fear - or something like it - fought with futility against its own body. Understanding of the person before him came and fled, driving him mad. What would become of her, if she truly was still alive? How could he leave her behind, to face eternity alone? How many times had the cycle already repeated?

This is why he hated the living, he now understood. It was not because of their imperfection. It was not because they reminded him of his failings. It was because it was they that caused his memories to return to him. It was the living that gave life to a dead man, for only enough time to wound the one he once loved the most.

“I,” he tried to begin, his memories flickering, obscuring his operation. “I,” he managed, his voice trailing away into monotone, “loved…”

The Necrontyr - the Necron - no longer considered its own identity. The curse - the gift - of its gods, myth or reality, found its prize once again, and stole the nameless lover from his own mind, and from the gaze of his companion.

The Necron’s unfeeling eyes returned to battle, compelled only by the undeath of a lifeless existence. The Lord held her gaze for a few moments more, watching him.

Her body shifted, as though meaning to speak. If she had lips to move, they might have failed her. Her eyes broke from the body of her general. She, too, understood. She understood what it meant to be alive.

(end)