## Story 1 ![bg0130093.png](/uploads/bg0130093_c04d79cd6b.png) The man's consciousness is suspended in darkness.
He is consumed utterly by the sensation of floating. Motionless. Adrift. Alone.
Here in this space do his memories lie.
Though the engineers refer to it as "storage," the name matters not.
Hovering about him are images covered in layers of static and indecipherable noise.
Once, perhaps, they were things he had seen and heard,
but now they are damaged beyond all meaning, barely worthy of the name of "memory."
The man absently watches images pass by in the dark.

From whence do they come? To where are they headed?
He does not know the answer to these questions, so he simply...drifts.
But then, in that eternal moment, a voice.

Once this world finds peace, I want you to search for the reason you live.
The voice is soft. A caress.
Though the image is damaged and the sound grows indistinct as it continues to play,
the man somehow knows these words were spoken to him.

He desperately wants to hear the voice again.
Over. And over. And over.
He does not understand what the words mean, nor the circumstances in which they were said.
But for some reason, a powerful need to make another's wish come true holds him in its fist.

Once this world finds peace, I want you to search for the reason you live.
But his body is gone to rot now.
There can be no reason to live in a stygian world such as this.
Feebly, he attempts to halt his thought process.

Static abruptly rips through his consciousness, causing bewilderment to overtake him.
The static spreads, swallowing both the space and his data entire.
He reaches out, attempting to save that one snippet of voice...
But all is engulfed by the black.
His consciousness remains. It grows clearer. Focused.

He can hear now. Smell. Touch.
Moments earlier, he'd not even been certain of the presence of his own body,
but now all his senses return in a rush.
Sight arrives last.

It comes in the form of a brilliant light that engulfs his very being.
"What...?"
The word escapes his lips as confusion settles in his chest.
He feels a vibration in his throat, unaware the word is his own.

"You're awake," says an unfamiliar voice.
As his eyes slowly grow used to the light, a form wobbles into shape before him.
It is a woman with bright red hair, clad in a crisp labcoat.

"Your storage was really old, so I wasn't sure if this was going to work.
But hey, it did! Good thing I went for it, huh?"
She can barely contain the excitement in her voice as she drags a nearby mirror over.
"Oh, and I freshened up your look while I was at it. Might as well, right? Here, take a look."
She draws him up from his spot on the ground and makes him stand straighter.
"Look at you!" she cries, pointing at the mirror.

The sight is beyond the man's comprehension.
He tilts his head and blinks once, slowly.
A sense of unease buzzes as he watches the boy in the mirror copy his movements.
"Do you get it? You've been reborn!"

He looks at his hands.
They are small. Soft. A child's. It almost seems as though natural blood flows through them.
Such hands could not even grasp a gun—how can they possibly be his?
"So? What do you think?" asks the woman with red hair.
As she begins to giggle, the man trapped in the false body of a boy looks back at her in confusion. ## Story 2 ![bg0130096.png](/uploads/bg0130096_05031b6467.png) Parts fill the boxes: cables, circuit boards, integrated circuits.
The man—no, the boy—does not know their purpose.
Following the woman's instructions, he carries the goods,
separates the parts, and polishes that which can be used.
The juvenile body lacks muscular tissue, and cannot carry much.
It cannot reach for items in high places, nor physically exert beyond the capabilities of any human child.

The boy does not recall his previous body, exactly.
But he remembers it was not this small, nor this powerless.
Faint fragments of memory slumber in a far corner of his mind.
The hands on his previous body were large enough to hold a gun of deadly caliber.
He does not know if they were used to protect, or to destroy.
But he knows his previous orders were all ones of slaughter.

As such, he finds indescribable discomfort at being
placed in the body of one meant to meld seamlessly into human society.
Suddenly, his hands cease their work. His head snaps up.
The woman who had been so engrossed in her work has fallen asleep at her desk.
The boy drapes a blanket over her shoulders with a practiced hand.

The woman calls herself a researcher, and collects pieces of abandoned machines from the world over.
She has a particular interest in those produced by a kingdom that fell many, many years ago.
Apparently, his new young body was crafted from parts created in that kingdom.
The storage incorporated in his chassis is old,
but the woman claims it is compatible with wireless communication, and therefore of great value.
She has also found indications it was once used as a kind of backup storage.

She is a master of machinery; It is her life's work to turn discarded parts into incredible robots.
But she does not let the boy go, instead keeping him by her side so he might aid in her work.
The humans of the city respect her.
And because he keeps so close to her, they immediately accept him as well.
They even call out to the boy whenever he walks through the city.

"You're with the researcher, right? There's a good lad."
"If you ever need help with anything, just let me know."
"You and me should go play sometime!"
Whenever they do this—treating him like a human
child—the boy is forced to quietly calculate an appropriate response.
His life now is one of peace and ease.
And each time such pleasant sensations come to him, the voice fragment replays in his mind.

Once this world finds peace, I want you to search for the reason you live.
Most of the data in his memory has been destroyed.
He does not know from whence he came, nor where he is headed.
Why would someone ask a thing like him—a machine—to search for the reason he lives?

As he ponders this, the young baker's son notices him and tilts his head curiously.
"What's the matter?"
"I am searching for an answer. Please inform me the reason why I live."
The baker's son's eyebrows furrow.
"Uh, I dunno. That sounds complicated."
"Yes. My apologies."

"But I think we live so we can do fun stuff!"
"Fun...stuff?"
"Yeah! I have lots of fun playing with friends from school, so that's probably why I'm alive."
The boy now has one more piece of data to analyze.
After that, wherever he goes,
he poses the same question to any townsperson or robot capable of communication.

"The reason I'm alive is to work hard, get tons of money, and look reeeal good."
Taking the florist's words to heart, the boy attempts to find meaning in her purpose.
He paints his face in various colors, decorates his hair, and bedecks himself in finery.
But he does not understand what purpose these actions serve.

"I EXIST TO KEEP EVERY CORNER OF THE CITY NICE AND CLEAN."
The words of the city's cleaning robot are easier to understand than those of the florist.
Its is a simple existence:
It sweeps dust from crevices in flagstone and places rubbish in the basket on its back.

The boy follows the cleaning robot and tries to aid in these tasks.
Though it is repetitive, endless work, it poses little trouble for the boy.
But while he finds a sense of pleasure in keeping the city clean, he does not know if it is a reason to live.
As the cleaning robot was created for that sole purpose,
it makes sense the task would be its reason for existence.
But the boy feels it is not quite right for him.
What is a reason for living, anyway? Can one find it simply by being ordered to be a certain way?

As the boy helps the researcher with her work,
he asks more townsfolk his question and attempts to emulate their purpose.
"You've been tackling complicated stuff lately,huh?"
she asks him one day. "Asking why people live and all that?"
A curious smile crosses the researcher's face.
In response, he poses the question to her.

"Me? Oh, that's easy. I make people's lives better and more peaceful by building robots."
When people speak of their purpose, their eyes shine.
Even the robots speak with a hint of pride and duty.

But for some reason, the boy cannot find the same emotions in himself.
None of the answers given to him quite line up with the reason the boy lives. ## Story 3 ![bg0130100.png](/uploads/bg0130100_80d178c2c6.png) Easy days pass amidst the peace.
Though the boy continues to assist the researcher, he remains unable to find the reason he lives.
But simply living among the people gives him ample opportunity to see them smile.
He assumes it to be a vastly different experience from when he was a tool of slaughter.

Machines were made to serve people.
Like the other robots, he knows that fulfilling his prescribed task will count as a reason for living.
But that does not sit well with him. His thoughts—his circuits—reject the notion.

And then, a fateful day arrives.
The woman, who always wore comfortable clothes while engaged in research,
appears before the boy in a beautiful dress, her hair tied neatly back.
The pale green of the dress reminds him of the first buds of spring.
"I'll be wearing this to the commendation ceremony," she informs him.
"So am I looking good or what?"
The boy can only tilt his head in response.

"The king is presenting me with a medal," the woman says shyly.
There is a faint blush on her cheeks, as well as a brilliant shine in her eyes.
The robots she created had improved the lives of many,
and the king wished to reward her contribution to the peace.
"You know, this medal belongs to you as much as me."
"I do not understand. I only worked in accordance to your orders."
"Yeah, but you were such a HUGE help! And in fact..."

With that, she begins to tell him a story.
She spins the tale of what inspired her to start building robots.
In her hands, she holds an old picture book.
It tells the story of a prince who traveled the land preaching peace,
accompanied by a clockwork attendant.
The story left a strong impression on her when she read it as a young child.

That fabled kingdom of yore had become embroiled in the fires of war.
In that tragic time where many people lost their lives, machines were used not to support, but to kill.
But amidst the war and strife, one person stood up for others.
He was the eldest prince of the selfsame kingdom that started the wars,
and he had a singular companion: a clockwork man slated for disposal.
Together, this pair avoided the kingdom's pursuers, traveling the land while they advocated for peace.

But the prince was born sickly, and did not live to see the world he strove so hard to create.
Yet people had been so moved by his ideals that
they became the foundation for peace in the current times.
"So that's basically it," the woman concludes. "I just wanted to be like the
prince who was good with machines—I never really understood
the significance of what he accomplished."

The robots she now creates to help people are built from parts salvaged from old clockwork soldiers.
At the thought of all the people she's helped, a smile crosses her face.
It is brilliant, amicable, and gentle.
At its appearance, a thought occurs to the boy: He has seen this smile before.

His memories should have broken down long ago.
Yet those fragments now begin to bind together in a way he can only think of as significant.
The kingdom. Wars. Clockwork soldiers. A prince.

Images drift within his memory.
Though muddled by static, he beholds the face of a boy.
A boy around the same age as his current body.
The boy is looking directly at him.
Though his eyes are gentle, there is an unyielding light shining behind them.
His thin lips part.
When he next speaks, he says the same words which first came from the darkness:
Once this world finds peace, I want you to search for the reason you live.

As the voice fades, countless memories flicker through his mind.
Blending with the crowds of a city. Hiding in a shop near a battlefield.
Walking a road in the rain. An empty forest. A shattered church.
The images twinkle like stars in the darkness of his memory.
Images of days spent protecting him.
Though worn and riddled with static, they remain surprisingly fresh in his mind.
And to the very end, they hold a powerful grip on his heart. ## Story 4 ![bg0130105.png](/uploads/bg0130105_01d9c5c833.png) Faded images. Voices in static.
The memories that endure within the boy are missing much,
but now he finally recalls what is most important to him.
He remembers who beseeched him to find the reason he lives.
"There's someone I must see."
This he says to the researcher.
It is the day after she received the medal from the king.

Unable to hide her curiosity, she asks him question after question.
But he is prepared with ready explanations to them all.
Finally, she sets her kind eyes on him. "Safe travels," she says.

Perhaps she has known all along. Perhaps she has known
about the memories that drift in his storage.
This would explain why she kept him by her side all this time.
Instead of saying anything in return, the boy simply nods.
But he does so with thanks.
Thanks for awakening him—and for allowing him to remember what matters.

As he leaves the city, people turn to him with smiles.
"Where are you going?"
"You should take some flowers!"
"GREETINGS. I ENGAGE IN ANOTHER DAY OF KEEPING THE CITY CLEAN."
The city is calm. Peaceful.
Anyone can find the happiness they desire in this place.

But the boy does not think twice.
He now knows from whence he came. He now knows to where he goes.
He has remembered it all.
He will retrace the steps of his broken memory.

The world beyond the city is vastly different than the one he once knew.
Yet he follows the trail of his recollections, letting
long-forgotten names and vague echoes of the past guide him.
He walks as though following another boy's footsteps.

He passes through lively towns and wide fields.
Past cheery groves and silent lakes. Eventually, the boy finds himself in a deep, dark wood.
There is nothing particularly special about these woods.
But the boy is certain it is the place.
As he ventures deeper into the forest, he finds a ramshackle church long fallen into disrepair.
The moment he sees it, a thin voice rises from his sandworn memories.

"My Prince..."
I want you to search for the reason you live.
The soldier did not understand why the prince told him so at the time.

The prince had likely been worried what would become of the soldier after he passed.
He often spoke of the future between troubled, delicate breaths.
Perhaps he hoped to offer his guardian the faintest
guidance for the time after he passed from the world.

Once the robot boy—the man—passes through the church,
he arrives at the spot he has been searching for.
The ground is slightly raised. Sticking from it is a metallic staff eaten away by rust.
It is a grave.

From beneath the earth, he senses a faint signal.
If his memory can be trusted, this is where the prince and his clockwork attendant are buried.
The clockwork soldier's original body had been laid to rest at this grave uncountable years ago.
What the man now carries is his backup memory.
Though his adolescent form is weak, it can still exist in a peaceful world.
For he is no longer a tool of slaughter, but a being that exists to help others.

Yet he still cannot find a reason to live in that life.
That reason exists in only one place: here.
The man aligns his signal with the body slumbering beneath the earth.
He then begins transferring his memories to his original self.
Strength leaves his body. Light flickers and fades.
His boyish form crumples to the earth.

At long last, the clockwork man awakens.
The dark is perfect.
His sight has long since broken down.
Though he would not be able to see anything from his position beneath the earth regardless.
His hearing is dim. His body still.
He feels a terrible heat emanating from deep within his form—likely
due to broken machinery being forced to life once more.
But here, in this dark and quiet place, he is buried with his master.
The one person the man willingly chose to serve—and the one he sought to protect.

The reason for living he had been so desperately searching for.
All he ever wanted was to stay by the prince's side.
Even if the prince himself no longer lived.
Faulty memories produce error after error.
Images and sounds crumble like castles of sand.
Yet the man recalls all the humans and robots who spoke of their purposes in life.

The shining eyes of the humans. Their happy smiles.
The inorganic voices of the robots. Their sense of pride and duty.
Only now, in this place, does the man understand.
He knows how they felt and what they think, for he feels and thinks the same.

A sense of relief eases into his heart.
Even though clockwork men are not meant to have such things.
Slowly, his consciousness leaves him.
He lays quiet and still beside the one for whom he risked his everything.
With spring emerging far above him, he slips into a deep and dreamless slumber.
One from which he will never wake.

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