Jorg wakes up.
This cycle is just like any other cycle for him; each one, the same general monotony broken up—maybe—by the single bright spot that is spending time with Adenine when both their shifts allow. And right now, with system responsibilities calling in just under a third of a millicycle, work very much doesn't allow.
From the centre of the room, Jorg's bit watches as its program hauls himself up and blearily stumbles around trying to see if he can find where he's left his rail-pass.
It's under the couch. The bit knows this because that's where it left it.
It should be noted that Jorg's bit keeps better track of the system calendar than he does. In fact, Jorg's bit is aware that today is actually a holiday. Jorg's bit is also more outgoing than he is, and thinks it has better fashion sense.
It does.
Much to Jorg's increasing alarm, throughout his (attempted) wake-up routine, his bit keeps suggestively flashing pink at him. This isn't normal bit behavior – he assumes. (He's new to bit adoption though, so who can really say?)
He's not even sure why this bit picked him in the first place. To be fair, he's also got no clue where it came from, nor where it sometimes gets off to. Some evenings he returns home expecting one, and instead finds himself alone in his apartment with exactly zero.
Rezzing up his work boots, he isn't so pleased to find his bit getting underfoot right now. Literally. On the bright side, stepping on a spiky ball of NO, does a good job of throwing him back into fully-alert-mode. Rolling on the ground clutching his foot also allows him to find his rail-pass nestled in a corner under his furniture, so there is that too.
He looks up, about to thank his bit with even parts of sarcasm, and is shocked to see it now a magenta so magenta it borders on lewd.
There's a moment of stunned silence before Jorg asks with a large portion of trepidation, "You're not... you're not flirting with me right? Because if you are, you should, uh, probably cut that out."
Jorg doesn't even know how any of that would work, but he's pretty sure it would be an illegal operation.
There's only two ways this question can go, and Jorg waits for the answer he knows is coming. Bits, after all, live to answer questions. (Again, he assumes. For all he knows, maybe they live to knock things off shelves. Knowing this one, it's as valid a query response as any.)
"No," is the reply he gets.
And then possibly, as a reprimand, because Jorg really should know better—which by now, we all know he doesn't—the bit pokes him between the eyes with a single red spike, before going back to what Jorg can only assume must be a fashion statement. Pink is in this cycle?
It doesn't really matter. He has to get to work.
Except his bit seems to have other plans. In order of execution, it does its best in keeping Jorg from: grabbing his tool box, grabbing his prepacked lunch, leaving through the front door, and just generally making his way to work.
It's things like this that make him glad he doesn't need a lightcycle, and can ride the train where he needs to go. He's sure his bit—with its uncharacteristic morning moodiness—would be a terrible driving distraction.
At least the bit sits quietly in his lap the duration of the ride – for the most part. A few times it cheekily winks pink and has programs turning their heads to do a double take, but by then it's back to a neutral unassuming blue.
"Bad Bit," Jorg whispers furiously, stifling it with both hands.
He gets a palmful of spikes and a muffled, "No," for his efforts.
It's almost enough to distracted him from the fact that this is the first time his bit has shown interest in following him to work. Then again, the bit isn't usually interested in ramming into him in no-form either. For all the naughtiness though, the company is still nice.
When Jorg finally arrives at his station, it's only a short walk to his work building. Oh, excuse me: his locked work building.
A floating neon sign in front of the doors reminds him that today is a recreational holiday.
He should have known.
Looking over to his bit, he asks, "Are you going to say 'I told you so'?"
"Yes."
"System-wide holiday, isn't it?" Jorg muses aloud – something he's found himself doing more of lately.
"Yes."
"Think Adenine will have the day off too?"
"Yesyesyes."
"The bit's right," Adenine says laughing, conveniently rounding a corner and somehow simultaneously filling Jorg's disc with a warm glow. "I did have the day off. Everyone does. Figured I'd find you here," she says. "Actually that's a lie. My bit helped."
Jorg, for all his sudden self-consciousness at being predictably found forgetting a holiday, still notes that Adenine's bit has always been better mannered than his. Hers isn't flashing anyone; it just rests primly an inch above her shoulder.
When the two bits register one another, they immediately dial themselves straight up to a genuine #FF00FF. Adenine laughs again, sounding delighted. Jorg is just embarrassed.
Rising off Adenine's shoulder, her bit somehow manages to strut through the air over to his own. They bump axis, both settling back to their usual yellow.
"Yes."
"Yes."
"You two going to give us some privacy?" Adenine asks both orbiting forms.
"Yes."
"Yes."
"Then let's get out of here," Jorg suggests, the humdrum of his run-time forgotten as it so often is in Adenine's company.
"No!"
Jorg can only assume it's his bit that says that. This is largely due to the fact that it has propelled itself into his ankle, ricocheting off angrily.
He doesn't even feel it, since his feet are protected by his thick, ungainly work boots.
Oh.
"I should probably change these," he says.
"Yeah, you probably should," Adenine agrees. And then because it's completely necessary to point out: "You know, your bit has an impeccable sense of style."
She is agreed with by a chorus of dual "yeses."
The bits meander off together after that, leaving the two friends alone to enjoy their holiday in peace. And because this story isn't actually about programs and their poor fashion decisions, you should know what happens next:
Once out of sight, the bits return to their festive rosy hues. It's all well and good to make a point, but programs can be such prudes sometimes.
The two rise gently on the city's cool updraft into the sky, where they are met by a collection of others with the same process on their tiny bit-brains. Everyone is an enticing pink. It's all very exciting.
Chemistry fills the air as the bits double up, and then double up again. Eventually everyone files into neat packs of eight. When complete, and after they've all introduced themselves and gotten to know each other, the groups rise up further—all together now—into the privacy of the Grid's clouds.
Static bounces off facets, traveling first from one, to another, to another. Lightning is sparked and thunder covers the sound of a multitude of energised yesses.
Later that night, after the party has wound down, a procession of bytes quietly make their way back into the city.
While the bits enjoyed taking care of their individual programs, their programs are all grown up and don't need them anymore; they're ready for the big wide world now. The bytes might drop in unannounced someday, just to make sure their programs are doing alright without them, but the bytes aren't too concerned. Bits always do a good job.
Besides, they're ready to hold conversations now, and it's about time they let people know what they really think.
.
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That concludes our story on the miracle of nature and the Grid's native fauna. Now you know how bytes are made! You're welcome.
Jorg might point out that we still collectively have no idea where bits come from in the first place, but no one is asking him. And anyway, as all bits and bytes know, there's still something to be said about a little mystery~.
Happy Hallmark Holiday, everyone. May all your 0s be 1s, have a good time, and enjoy yourself for me whatever you end up doing tonight!
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