Mraxinar Awakens

In his centuries of existence, Mraxinar had never been unconscious before. The physiology of a bone construct such as himself was not, really, anything like that of a human. His skull served as a focal point for conversation with others, a perspective from which he could see and hear, and, he supposed like humans, he had come to think of it as the seat of his consciousness.
And yet, there was no brain inside that skull – there had not been for a very long time, and he had never thought of that brain as belonging to himself. Certainly, some humans assumed that because the brain was the organ that processed information and output commands to the rest of the body that manifested in behavior that it must also be the seat of consciousness. This of course carried with it some dire implications regarding what happened when a brain was destroyed, or even when it was damaged. Where did the self go, exactly, when that seat of consciousness no longer existed?
Mraxinar had always been aware that his body was not indestructible. It did not age the same way that human bodies did, but it was physical matter that could wear over time and that could be threatened by any severe violent trauma.
And yet, in the Wastes, in the grand city of Spire, the notion that life could come to an end was far from anyone’s mind.
Even when the ship was destroyed shortly after they arrived in Port O’James, he had not quite processed what had happened. One guard had been killed – or destroyed, as the living humans had thought of it – but Mraxinar had not known that individual very well. It was an anomaly, and the event had been abstracted in his mind.
Mraxinar did not even sleep. He did not even have eyelids to blink.
And so, had he been conscious enough to evaluate his situation, he would have thought that the only reasonable explanation for his loss of sight and conscious thought was that he had died, been destroyed, and ceased to exist.
He had, in fact, been knocked unconscious, which was not something he had even been aware was possible.
When he came to, he was in a hospital bed, which was a very ironic thing because none of the equipment or instruments there were remotely suited to provide him with any help. The first sign that something was terribly wrong was that he seemed to fit on the bed.
There was a uniformed enforcement officer outside the door. When Mraxinar called out, his voice was weak.
What was this? He had no throat to be hoarse. His speech was a magical projection from his mouth, not the vibrations of vocal cords shaped by tongue, lips, or teeth.
He tried again, conjuring up the strength to say something, and he felt not just confused or frustrated by the effort it required but also terrified.
“I’m awake!” he cried out, the panic perhaps coloring the sound of his words.
This time the officer heard, and Mraxinar could hear as he called in a nurse and then began to radio in to his headquarters.
A doctor came in – Mraxinar was not certain, as much of his knowledge on human notions of gender were centuries old, but they appeared to be a nonbinary person in their early 30s – and seemed to approach with some trepidation.
“You are a caregiver, I understand?” he said.
“Yes. My name is Bailey,” they said. “Doctor Bailey Evans.”
“Why was I brought here? I don’t believe that any of the kind of medicine practiced in this facility is likely to do me any good.”
Bailey nodded. “You’re probably right about that, but it seemed the best option.” They began to jot down notes on a clipboard. “How are you feeling right now?”
Mraxinar considered it. “Mostly confused. I do not remember coming here. I experienced a period of unconsciousness.”
“Yes, you came in like that. Do you remember what happened before that?”
Mraxinar thought back. He remembered that he had been in the room with the other constructs, speaking about something. “Partially, perhaps. May I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” said Bailey.
“Is that darkness truly what sleep feels like?”
“Do you not sleep?”
“No, I’ve never slept before.”
Bailey put their clipboard away. “Sleep is… it depends. Sometimes you dream. You know about dreams?”
“I’m familiar with the concept on an intellectual level.”
“Well, usually if you dream it feels very real until you wake up from it. But sometimes, sleep is just sleep.”
“Nothingness?”
“Well, some might say that. Though I always feel as if there’s a sensation to it. It’s hard to put into words, but it’s a kind of low hum. It’s a good feeling, usually.”
Mraxinar considered that. There was not a sense of lost time – he did not feel as if he had been transported instantly to this bed – and yet he could not conjure up any memory of sensation while he was unconscious.
As if they had sensed his thoughts, Bailey said “You suffered a severe physical trauma. You were not just asleep.”
“I see.”
“Mraxinar, you were very close to the detonation of an explosive device. You have suffered from severe concussive trauma. Unfortunately, as you’ve noted, we are not experienced in treating a being of your nature here, and because of that, I am very sorry, Mraxinar, but we could not save your legs.”
Mraxinar had not considered that. He propped himself up on his hands, leaning forward as Dr. Evans assisted him. Indeed, there was only a trail of vertebrae that ended about a foot and a half beyond the ribs.
Mraxinar was suddenly aware of how small he was. He was accustomed to towering over others. Now, there was just this human skeleton that ended at the pelvis (with perhaps a few extra vertebrae, but not enough to look all that impressive.)
Immediately, a comforting thought came to him, which was that he could be repaired when he returned to the Wastes. They could outfit him with a new set of legs easily enough. Sure, the old ones had been with him since the moment of his creation. For centuries. The thought made him deeply sad.
“It is understandable.”
“Are you in pain?”
“No…” he said. Not physical pain at least.
“Mraxinar, Detective Inspector Harrick and Detective Sweeney are here to speak with you. Are you ready to speak with them?”
Mraxinar’s mood cheered for a moment at the mention of Sweeney’s name. “Oh, yes, certainly.”
“Right. I’ll be back when they’re gone so we can discuss long term goals here.”
That sounded ominous to Mraxinar, but he tried to dismiss it.
Dr. Evans exited the room, and the old man and the young undead woman walked in. “Mraxinar, how are you feeling?” asked Sweeney.
“Surreal, I think, would be the right word. How long was I unconscious?”
“Seven days,” said Harrick. He walked over to a chair in the room and sat down, resting his cane in a corner that a counter made with the wall. “What do you remember?”
Mraxinar thought back again. “There was… I was talking with my colleagues. We were… I had seen a man on the street that was wearing a very thin jacket despite the fact that it was well below freezing in the early morning. We were having a sort of intellectual conversation, I think? It’s remarkable how fuzzy the memory is.”
“Mraxinar,” said Sweeney. “We have to tell you something.”
“What is it?”
Harrick sighed. Sweeney looked to him, but he shrugged and gestured for her to continue. She stepped forward and placed a hand on Mraxinar’s wrist. “You were the only survivor. Gersic, Xirrik, Zyx, and Torithar… There were only fragments left.”
How self-centered he had been. Mraxinar stared forward at the blank ceiling. He had known Gersic for over three hundred years. They had had their differences in personality, to be sure, but he had been a friend.
“I am very sorry, Mraxinar, for your loss.”
“Thank you, Ana. Detective. I must confess that grief is not something I have a great deal of experience with. In these earliest moments of it, I find it very unpleasant.”
Harrick leaned forward in his chair. “The bomber killed your people as well as four humans, staying in rooms near yours. It took hours for firefighters to find you in the wreckage. I’m sorry about your legs.”
Mraxinar nodded. “Thank you for your condolences.”
“Mraxinar,” Harrick continued. “Do you remember what you were saying when the firefighters found you?”
“I was not aware I was saying anything.”
Harrick pulled out a notepad. “’We are one in the machine.’ What does that phrase mean to you?”
The conversation that he had had with his associates began to coalesce within his memory. “Gods, I…” He began to remember what they had discovered before the bomber arrived. “I think it was the subject of a conversation that was the very reason we would be targeted by the bomber.”
“What do you mean?” asked Sweeney.
“We were sent here to assist with your problems with the undead, because we are particularly well equipped to do so. And we had just discovered something over which was worth killing us.”
“And what was that?” asked Harrick.
“The Ice Lord is no longer in control of the draugar within the Forest of Dusk.”

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2019)