A/N: Welcome yet again to Edge. I'm terribly sorry about not updating, but now I'm back with a new idea that I really haven't seen done before on here.

I'll try to update more. And to my "You Cad!" fans . . .Sorry! I'll update that story next.

If you like reading disclaimers go to chapter two and stop wasting my time.

Be warned that this gives a way a little bit about GU (nothing that you don't know already, more than likely). Mainly, it's me having fun with what little info we have on what happened and what's going to happen.

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Chapter 3: Lonely Data Scraps

This showcases what it's like to exist solely over the edge, and what it's like to depend on those from the edge to breathe life into you.

. . . Some beings over the edge, however, do not need those from the edge to breathe life into them.

Passion and longing do this for them.

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Hahahaha.

Ha ha hahahah.

Hah. . .

The bright, morbid sound of laughter filled the air and the processing cores of all of the PCs present. That sweet, deranged tinkling of the digital vocal chords was all it took for a small tremor of movement to run throughout the rather dead crowd.

One PC in particular stirred.

Silently, it shook its head and gripped its forehead in pain. This was the sensation that was familiar, yet not.

A PC is a Personal Character. It is the avatar and the extension of the being of its user. It is only bits and scraps of coding, data, and pixels. The breath of life only blows through it and courses through its pale imitation of a body only when its user accessed "The World" and works through it.

This PC was different. It was the PC that was not.

Two aquamarine pools of pure, untouched light sat where its -- no, his -- eyes should have been. When the PC that was not drifted into the realm of fake consciousness and reality, there was no true, human consciousness to grant the windows to its cheap, digital soul sentience.

The PC who was not blinked and wiggled his fingers and toes, feeling elated that the Mother who was not had granted him fake life. In the back of his fake consciousness, he dimly wondered how he knew about this Mother who was not, but, just like many real consciousnesses, he disregarded his intuition and turned to his task at hand.

"The World" is not real. It does not exist. Therefore, it is quite logical to assume that PCs are not stored in a mass, virtual warehouse. Also, it is safe to assume that they are not encased in gelatinous pods that are stacked up and hanging from stems as if they were on the shelves of a store carrying novelty toys that hang from their cheap cardboard and plastic casements.

They are. You are wrong. Feeble human logic has never deterred the Mother who was not.

All hail Morganna.

This PC who was not blinked its glorious, illuminating windows to its soul, which was also not. Little did it know that it had done this very act many times before. Again, it placed its hands on its entrapment and pushed. Its pod easily opened.

Again.

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The year 2015 was not a good one for the Cyber Connect Corporation.

Someone was naughty.

Someone started a fire where there should never be a fire.

Someone tried to kill Mother who was not, even though She was already dead.

This someone may have accidentally killed Mother who was in fact the Daughter.

The year 2015 was not a good one for the Cyber Connect Corporation.

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He had reached her. The PC who was not reached the Goddess who was not.

She was beautiful to him. He had always loved her. Always.

He smiled, his windows crinkling slightly in delight.

---

The Mother who was not almost died. That had never happened before.

---

He sunk to his knees in the middle of the warehouse. That's where the Goddess who was not was waiting for him. She lay on the ground like a beautiful doll. Her perfect, tan face was as still as death. Beautiful, cotton-candy bangs covered her eyes, which were undoubtedly closed. If they were open, then how come they did not radiate with such beautiful light as his own?

---

The Mother who was not began to shut down. The PC who was not was finally developing feelings. It was . . .

---

He smiled again. He wanted to touch her. Caress her perfect face. Hold her close. He had always wanted to do that, he knew. The PC who was not could just not figure out why or how.

"Blackrose. . ."

---

The Mother who was not began to fail. The PC who was not had found his voice that was.

---

His smile became that of a puzzled one. Why did he not know? Who was the Goddess who was not? Who was he?

What was his name?

"I am . . ." He paused to let a sweet-sounding laugh. "I do not know who I am." He looked down upon the Goddess who was not. "Can you tell me who I am?" He wanted to touch her arm and gently shake her awake. The PC who was not couldn't do this, however. He couldn't touch his Goddess who was not unless he knew who he was.

He crossed his legs and looked blankly thoughtful. "What makes someone exist?" he asked to no one. "What is existence? How can you tell if you exist or not?"

Maybe if he had asked someone, someone would have responded. Alas, his questions went to no one, and no one responded.

His face took on a strained aspect. "I . . . I exist. I am sitting here. I am talking. I am thinking about a problem and processing it. My purpose is to discover an answer. I have purpose, therefore I exist." The PC who was not cleared his expression to a content one and smiled.

"I must find a name."

He stood up and paced around the Goddess who was not. If I can move and feel that I am moving, then I exist. A possible solution to existence, he thought to himself.

---

The Mother who was not was failing. All the PC who was not had done before was walk over to his Goddess who was not, stare blankly, and erupt into a ball of light. That was the sequence programmed. The Mother who was not was to study it and wait for change. Change would never come, the Mother who was not reasoned, because she programmed the sequence to loop into eternity.

She had a purpose, therefore, she could exist a little while longer.

But something had happened that was not programmed. The PC who was not was now not a PC.

He was an AI. A Vagrant AI.

---

"I. . . I . . ." The PC who was not struggled for words.

"My name is . . .

"K . . .

"Ki . . .

"Kit. . .

He let out a mix of a gasp and ashout of surprise.

" I am-- "

Blip.

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It was noted that this particular fire spread quickly.

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Okay, I do believe this is a short, cheap, cop-outchapter. Just something to think about.Lonely Data Scraps II will be coming soon because this is in no way over.

Unless, of course, you wish it to be over.

I'd love to hear people's opinions, so feel free to review.

Note: Any errors that you find (unless grammatical and such) are more than likely the editing system's fault. Not mine. I'm very frustrated with this thing . . .

- A I D A