I don't remember being born. I'm pretty sure nobody does, but in my case, it's more literal than most. One moment, nothing existed—just the vastness of a forgotten nowhere—and in the next, there was me. Not in a graceful, poetic, coming-into-being kind of way, mind you. It was more like tripping face-first into consciousness, except I didn't know where my face was or how consciousness was supposed to work when you're mostly elastic limbs and absent feelings.
If I had emotions, I'd probably feel something about that.
The first thing I registered clearly was the absence. The absence of feeling, warmth, breath, heartbeat—all the familiar markers of being alive. My chest didn't rise or fall; my limbs lay still and cool, stretched awkwardly across a ground that felt too smooth, too glassy beneath me. I lay there, listening to the strange silence. Not empty, not exactly, but… expectant. Like something was waiting for me to begin. Maybe it was me.
Instead, I simply existed, sprawled inelegantly on what felt like cold stone, limbs tangled together like wet noodles. I tried to open my eyes, only to realize that was a strange thought. Eyes? Did I have eyes? I wasn't even sure I had a face. I moved cautiously, experimentally, pushing an arm outward. It slithered forward bonelessly, the motion as fluid as a snake gliding across water. I froze in surprise, pausing at the unnerving flexibility of my own limb. That wasn't right.
I slowly twisted and turned and took stock of myself. My limbs were slender and impossibly flexible, a silvery-white color that gleamed faintly under the ever present not quite light of this place. My arms tapered into delicate points, though I did seem to have fingers, for some reason they were bound by straps.
Well, I thought—or at least, I assume it counts as thinking. This is... suboptimal.
Instinctively, I flexed and tugged experimentally against those bindings. Shape, it seemed, was more a suggestion than a rule for my form and, gradually, I was able to stretch my limbs enough that the straps slid loose, unraveling with a faint whisper of fabric against skin, the straps fading away into nothing.
And there, revealed beneath, were five slender fingers—pale, elegant, unnaturally long, but unmistakably fingers.
I brought my other hand—or whatever it was—upward, tracing along what I assumed was my head. It felt smooth, slick, like something that had Polytetrafluoroethylene for skin. Or, in other words, that material you feel on the inside of fancy new frying pans. There was even a seam near the front of my head, where I would have expected a mouth, if I were a creature that had a mouth.
Wait.
I pressed tentatively, feeling around this strange feature. It was an opening—with zipper-like teeth surrounding the gap, that revealed something else, another surface inside. Carefully, awkwardly, I pushed the tips of my fingers against it, limbs crowding my vision. I felt an inner mouth—slightly open, hidden within that outer seam—and then, above it, two small indentations that twitched at my touch. Eyes. I waved at them, and the eyes dutifully took in the offending noodles.
So I did have a face, tucked away behind a hood with a zipper for a mouth, like some bizarre Halloween costume.
Who—or rather, what—was I supposed to be?
Form obviously improved by this newfound ability to manipulate phalanges, I repeated the process with the other arm, slipping off the bindings to expose another matching set of graceful digits.
I tried to speak, intent on expressing my thoughts on the matter, but discovered immediately that a proper voice box was apparently a luxury my form had decided to forgo. My 'voice' an almost static, not quite audible, maybe more mental kind of thing.
"I don't know who I used to be," I murmured softly, testing the empty voice that resonated only in my mind, "but whoever they were, they really liked having fingers."
A long, sinuous sigh might have escaped me if I'd had lungs, vocal cords, and emotions to produce it. Instead, I just drooped as I considered the idea of melodrama, the upper half of my body curling downward as if reflecting disappointment.
But enough of that.
With fingers finally freed, I reached up again to trace along my zippered mouth, running fingertips carefully along the outer edges, exploring the hidden contours beneath. I considered taking my… hood(?) off, revealing what's beneath, but a quiet instinct warned me against it. Some things were probably better left undiscovered.
With the small mystery of my hands and head solved, I turned my attention back to the greater mystery of existence. Now that I'd established the basics of how to move, I unfolded my legs. Standing proved challenging at first—my body seemed to resist traditional balance, preferring instead a languid, drifting sway. As if gravity was also a polite suggestion. It seems this body didn't have much regard for the concept of physics.
With complete disregard for the fundamental force of the universe, I stretched upward, rising onto tiptoes with my long, slender limbs, testing the limits of my flexibility. I found none. My body was elastic, malleable, and absurdly cooperative in ways that made no biological sense. Another of those phantom sensations whispered through my mind—a note that this is where I would have felt amusement, perhaps, or wonder.
How could I feel amused without a heart to hold the feeling?
Well, maybe I couldn't. Maybe this was just what remained when everything else had faded—a hollow impression left behind when emotion was stripped away.
After all, I wasn't even really here. Not fully. Not truly.
I was something else now—a Nobody, drifting through this new, undefined existence. Whatever that meant. Whoever I was before had vanished into shadows I couldn't remember. Whoever I was now, this strange figure in a pale bodysuit with hidden eyes and freed fingers, was left alone with unanswered questions.
Questions like why I was standing here, contemplating existence, when I could be doing literally anything else.
Something stirred inside—not emotion, exactly, but the barest shadow of motivation. Standing still seemed wrong, as though if I remained too long in place, the universe might remember it forgot to erase me.
I had no memory, no purpose, no heartbeat. But I had movement. I had a vague sense that stopping would mean slipping back into the void I'd just escaped
And, perhaps most importantly, I had fingers.
Slowly, cautiously, I lifted my gaze—or rather, I inclined the pointed end of my elongated skull-hood-thing upward—and observed my surroundings. The world around me was bathed in perpetual night, a seemingly endless, shadowed city sprawled in every direction. Buildings of dark stone rose crookedly into the sky, windows empty and hollow, like eyes staring eternally into the dark.
I wondered if I should know this place, given that this is where I started my non-existence.
Even with no heart of my own, I sensed irony somewhere in that.
In the distance, something else moved—silvery figures similar to myself, flipping and spiraling gracefully into portals of various shades of gray. Other shapes, darker and lower to the ground, skittered silently, ignoring me completely. They seemed entirely unconcerned with anything beyond their routine, aimlessly drifting as though existence were a mild inconvenience.
Instinctively, I raised one long, flexible arm and waved, attempting a universal gesture of greeting. Perhaps the others knew something I didn't. Perhaps they'd explain our shared situation. Perhaps they'd even share existential pointers. But the nearest creature simply twisted itself upside-down, sky walking lazily through mid-air as it drifted straight past me.
Whoever they were, they had no interest in my presence.
I couldn't blame them. I wasn't even sure I was interested in my presence. It was hard to be interested without feeling. Strange to exist in such emptiness. Strange to exist at all.
"Okay," I mentally noted, entirely without surprise. "Interaction attempt number one: unsuccessful. Interaction status: nonexistent."
I turned and shuffled toward another group of these ghostly figures, stretching and twisting my limbs experimentally as I went. Walking turned out to be less straightforward than anticipated, given my complete lack of bones or joints. Every step felt like a calculated attempt at not falling over, followed by immediate recalculation as gravity disagreed with my methods.
After an awkward series of lurches, spins, and tumbles that might have counted as forward progress, I reached this cluster of my fellows. They were similarly uninterested, ignoring my gestures, words, and even deliberate attempts at physical interference. I spent several seconds processing this apparent insult—though, admittedly, my lack of emotions significantly dampened any feeling of offense.
I decided that I needed to broaden my search for answers. Clearly, these ribbon-bodied automatons had nothing to offer. Turning away, I observed a new figure approaching from the opposite end of the plaza. It was smaller and darker, its body pitch-black with two large, yellow, glowing eyes that gazed blankly forward. It was crawling low to the ground, twitching occasionally, moving with purpose if not elegance.
Something inside my mind supplied a word: "Heartless."
I tilted my head curiously and shuffled over toward the creature, waving politely with one of my elongated fingers. The Heartless stopped, turned its glowing gaze toward me, and—very deliberately—ignored me, scurrying right past without a second glance.
Apparently, even Heartless found me uninteresting.
"Noted," I thought dryly. "I officially rank lower on the existential threat meter than shadowy vermin."
My own sense of self-worth was beginning to take shape, albeit as a very abstract, hypothetical concept. If I'd had feelings, I imagined they'd be rather bruised at this point.
Ignoring the quiet indignities of my non-existence, I moved slowly around the plaza, taking stock of this world that I had inexplicably been born into. My thoughts cycled between philosophical musing and sarcastic commentary—both seemingly my preferred coping mechanisms for a reality that made little sense.
What was I, exactly? A Nobody, I knew somehow, and not just in terms of just being someone unimportant. It wasn't knowledge so much as instinct, as obvious to me as breathing would have been if I'd had lungs. Nobodies, creatures devoid of hearts. And among Nobodies, I was the most insignificant type—one of many identical drones wandering endlessly, without purpose or emotion. Yet clearly, I was different. I was aware, self-reflective, and—strangely—sarcastic.
Did sarcasm require emotions, or could it simply be a deeply ingrained aspect of one's fundamental being?
Apparently, philosophical musings were another of my instinctual traits. This was quickly becoming an inconvenient combination: sarcasm and philosophy. The potential for internal contradictions seemed high. Something to muse on some other day.
As I stood there, gazing upward, a single thought settled into a comfortable place within my mind. Whoever I'd been—whatever person had preceded this strange, emotionless existence—perhaps I'd been a dreamer, or a philosopher, or simply someone who enjoyed dramatic moments of reflection in symbolically edgy dark cities surrounded by those that ignored me.
With no memories, it was impossible to know, and in this strange, detached way of no emotions, it didn't bother me. Couldn't bother me. With no apparent way to regain what I had lost, the past was irrelevant, lost in shadows like everything else here. I turned again, noting how smoothly my body twisted, my limbs bending effortlessly, defying logic and physics.
Having mastered mobility, I began to my slow strut, limbs stretching out before me as my head followed behind. I wasn't sure where I was going, nor even why I bothered going at all. But observation during my long life of at least several minutes told me clearly: best to be going somewhere than no where at all.
I had nothing else yet—no name, no allies, no direction, no heart. But I had myself, awareness without reason, and sarcasm without emotion. It wasn't much, but it was something, and as I set off down an empty street beneath the terribly dark sky, I resolved simply to keep moving.
Because standing still seemed like giving up, and even without feelings, I knew that wasn't something I'd ever choose.
It seemed like a decent place to start.