Please, Say My Name
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He was born into a cold and empty world. His location was irrelevant, for he only knew of two places; his barren home and the foreign outside world. He didn't know where he was, why he was there, or even who he was. All he knew was that he could hear and see what others said anywhere at anytime. He constantly stood vigilant, looking for more information, hoping someone could help him figure out himself.

That is how he spent his days; listening and watching the whole world, waiting for a new breakthrough in a cold case, for someone who could finally answer his existential questions. He was frequently left disappointed, however. He could see a story in a book, about a tall, dark, monster… but this one had teeth, or scales, or tore out your guts in a haunted forest. He was almost always left just out of frame, only gathering pieces of a lookalikes' life. The last time he met a human, they ran off screaming into the horizon, their orange jumpsuit never to be seen again.

Still, he waited. Eventually, he figured, someone would learn about him and allow him to know his true nature. Eventually, his great mystery would be solved, and his life given a sense of completion.

Eventually, someone would say his name.

… If it wasn't for the tireless work of the Foundation to keep his very existence under lock and key, never to be mentioned again.

Historically speaking, communicable infohazards were among the most difficult anomalies for the Foundation to contain. Even the very documentation meant to protect readers could be used to inoculate victims and spread the virus. Containment often amounted to clearance-level locks and copious usage of amnesetics - what you don't know can't hurt you.

Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.

Fortunately for the Foundation and everyone it protects, by the late 2020's, all communicable infohazards were effectively neutralized, simplifying some of the organization's most complicated containment procedures. No one could spread their dangerous ideas to anyone else ever again. Unfortunately, this was a byproduct of the world's inability to communicate anything at all.

He noticed that slowly, he was hearing fewer voices mention something relevant, and seeing fewer tales that aroused his attention. His flow of information was running dry, and with it, any chance for his epiphany moment.

He didn't know of the impending demise of communication, or of the desperate attempts to save it. He didn't feel horror as people struggled to say "I love you", "What's for lunch?", or to even use a turn signal.

What he did feel was the deafening silence and numbing blindness.

He no longer listens for his name to be called - there is no one to call it. He no longer tries to read about himself, or find an expert on his own history, for all that he will ever know has already been written.

He had always been lonely, but he was never alone. The voices gave him company, the texts gave him something to live for.


He is abandoned in an empty world. He has no one to talk to, and no one to suffer with.

And he assumed there was no escape from this life of torture. If he had outlived humanity, he reckoned he'd outlive just about everything else in the universe.

His life means nothing.

Without anyone to describe him, he is nothing.

And he always will be.

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