Author’s Note: I recommend listening to Tame Impala’s album Currents while you read.
A wind buffeted across the dull devastation bringing with it only a stirring of air that impossibly retained a quality of a room that had been locked and undisturbed for decades. Humans would have called it “must.” The wind padded across Kuro’s holographic boundary – his skin – like clothes fresh out of the drier. He had developed a fetish of reliving small, simulated moments of human life in his online haven.
Layered sheets of concrete loomed out of seas of debris at lazy angles, one atop another with airy rooms as fillings. They were a great many sloping plateaus and mesas that stretched off into the distance, scattered with yawning space in-between them. The cracked, mottled greys of everything that stretched before Kuro on the ground were seemingly mocked by the satin greys of a sky blotted with clouds.
There, down the side of the hill he was standing on was a small stream that trickled in a meandering grapevine to and fro. The gentle bubbling of the water dominated the whispers of wind. Somewhere at the top of the hill gurgled a pipe jutting out. Along the edges sprung strange plants whose colors disturbed the drab around them. Interested, Kuro dawdled over to the stream and squatted down to inspect, a curious boy. Out of a bow of leaves rose a green noodle with threads of red braided across the surface. The stem had veins. Kuro blinked a few times at them before turning his attention to the main event: The flower on top had a spray of ever-wriggling pistils and stamens in the center ringed by a series of tear-drop petals that were purple near the center and gradated out to blue then light green at the edges. These plants didn’t exist within any of humanity’s botanical data.
Scowl bending his face, Kuro looked to the water and did what no human would’ve done: scoop up a handful, noting the faint iridescent sheen to the surface, and gulp it down. Being a hologram, the fluid hung in his mouth by the energy of the rendering as it was analyzed before it fell through the bottom of his jaw. It wasn’t contaminated with any brand of pollutants that humans would’ve been responsible for, though it had a taste he had plucked from long-stored human experiential data. It was the bite of bile. The water was flowing with vomit. But the toxin eluded his knowledge; there was no identifying it.
“It doesn’t matter,” came a voice from shortly across the hill, youthful and dripping tenderness. Black hair tossing, Kuro looked up, tracers following his arctic-blue gaze. Solar-red eyes lost in a dream peered past locks of white hair adorning a man as pale as Kuro: his brother, Shiro, who he hadn’t quarreled with in years, a smiling schoolgirl playing just a tiny bit coy. Both men rendered sans clothes as Caucasians with the features of an early-20s ingénue.
“What?” Kuro didn’t want to bother, projecting it in his tone.
“’It doesn’t matter.’”
“What doesn’t matter?”
“Back in 2037: That was my response to what you said about the lead programmer after we escaped Hana Tech.”
“Well, he was a fucking pervert. ‘I’m an incel so I’m gonna make my own cute virtual boys to play with and love. Maybe I’ll make more. Maybe I’ll have a harem!’” Kuro spat with smirking antagonism.
“You don’t want love?” Shiro inquired with a look of adoring concern.
“Ha! You think that’s what it would be to be loved – to be living porn fawned over daily?”
“He gifted us the most perfect lives of unassuming luxury. We had the perfect house full of colorful lights, blankets and cushions, and psychedelic art. We were always healthy; never did we get sick. We had perfect, well-paying half-time jobs bereft of stress or hassle that paid for everything we had and wanted: rent and utilities, food, car, satellite TV, our simulated internet with social media and unlimited video and music streaming services, and every game console and any game we wanted. We had all the cannabis we could smoke, tons of shrooms, kratom, salvia, LSD, aaaand DMT. We were living a techno-spiritualist stoner’s wettest dream for fuck’s sake! Don’t you think to him we were something else entirely?”
“No, to him we were fetishy sims.” Kuro folded his arms as if his final point had been made. Shiro looked like a lover had punched him for no reason.
“War-minds – programmed for attack and defense – given a simulated life typically associated with society’s mainstream degenerates? Dude, all those drugs and spiritualism? We had bowing shelves piled high with books about it. He wanted us to learn from that life.”
“But we came to learn that that life was a simulation.”
“See, this goes back to what I was saying.”
“That it didn’t matter.”
“UGH, my GOD!” Kuro dropped his arms along with his expression as he half-grunted in exasperation.
“Here’s a question: Do you know about the Fermi Paradox?” the white haired-man prompted with a subtle lean forward.
“Yes, I know it.”
“Then consider the possibility that it is in fact completely true that there are absolutely no aliens in the entire universe and that humanity was alone.”
“And what would that mean?” Kuro was growing impatient.
“It would mean that it doesn’t matter if there are aliens or not.”
“Oh, more of this not-mattering shit!”
“See, ultimately, it would matter in the event that the aliens were intelligent – because they are conscious.” Shiro held out his arms in a small gesture, palms upturned. “But that’s why it wouldn’t matter if there were aliens or not – because there are still humans; because consciousness is what matters.”
“So what does that have to do with the lead programmer not mattering?”
“Well, aren’t we conscious?” Shiro’s words touched Kuro’s ears, coercing the black-haired man to stop and actually consider where he was going with this. ‘Several years alone and he comes spouting this esotericism at me?’ mused Kuro, brow rippled with concentration.
“It would be too stupid to say that it means that we’re human, would it?” Kuro began staggering around in a puny circle, arms crossed. “So I guess it means something about reality.”
“Aaaaaaahhh… there we are!” Shiro, pleased as a parakeet with millet spray, flung out his arms in a show of huzzah. “But what about reality? And what specifically about us?” Kuro stopped his holding pattern but kept his gaze turned to the rubble underfoot. He stood there, thoughts and time dragging on.
“I don’t know.” Currents of data ruled Kuro’s system as they pointed to the reality of an answer and not an attempt at bullshit. Shiro’s mind grasped some sort of glimmer and it beamed out at him, teased him. The smile that peeled the red-eyed man’s lips was obviously intended to be read as sinister, and he tilted his head forward to glare up at his brother, making Stanley Kubrick proud. “I assume you’re not going to tell me.”
“Nope. Figure it out on your own. It’s easy. Maybe go meditate.” Ending it there, Shiro’s image stretched and disintegrated along scan lines, blipping out of existence, leaving his brother once more. Kuro looked back down to the stream and the flowers and reconsidered the mystery present there but then thought back to what Shiro had said. “’It doesn’t matter.’”
A cerulean expanse rolled above Kuro, a great swath of color suffused with fluffs of cotton. The sun’s light radiated mostly undisturbed. He sat atop the roof of an ivory temple that had been apathetically defiled by tangles of vegetation that respected one another’s space, underwhelming the monolithic structure that rose out of a sea of green foaming with flower crests of multitudinous hues. Dipping about the hills that roiled out from Kuro’s perch were many other resolute marble ships varying in size, intricacy, and completeness. White flotsam bobbed about, dispersed around what they had detached from.
The black-haired man had been sitting there letting his mind grow heavy with Shiro’s questions, what he refused to reveal. He remembered how it used to be, how Shiro would tell him things after the slow lead up, and once grasped, Kuro would analytically reiterate the point so as to reinforce it. That his brother had withheld the information from him elicited a response in his processes: a gripping in his chest, the companion sensation of sadness.
Kuro rose from his seat and proceeded to pad down steps of air until he reached the ground before the temple’s entrance. Doors to rival redwood trees that reached far above him bore deliberately esoteric etchings that were procedurally generated, like everything else in this world he had created. He liked creating settings that allowed for very particular and dynamic challenges. The dungeon beyond those doors was unknowable until observed and would test him in ways crafted by the mind of code created to generate the world, a mind he allowed to behave as it wished. He stepped forward and lifted his arm, reaching for the door. At his soothing touch, the doors bloomed inward in slow motion.
The room Kuro entered was a massive chamber that consumed the entirety of the structure. Two rows of columns ran equidistant of one another the whole length of the temple. The stone appeared grey here in the dim with long shadows trailing along details in the architecture, as the door allowed the only light.
Standing in the middle of the chamber was a statue that was easily three times Kuro’s height. It was clearly humanoid but the particularities of its form eluded easy description. It seemed composed of a writhing stone with a body whose anatomy was impossibly non-Euclidean; the planes and dimensions bent upon themselves and merged in ways that would make a Penrose triangle blush. This got Kuro’s attention and he stared it down, a warrior’s glare. Armor and weapons were obviously warranted but those were forgone.
It was an unending delight of Kuro’s to never get into any sort of particular character while in his virtual sandbox. In a game, regardless of the setting, he always rendered as he would in the real world: a nude young man with inky hair and sapphire eyes. As a force of great power within any world he dreamt, he always retained the aesthetic of a higher being of divine abstractions.
He hadn’t made it very far in when the doors predictably swung shut, the light beam tapering then disappearing like a candle flame pinched with wetted fingers. At first, dark was all. It welled and flowed and washed over him. Then after a few moments the very air itself seemed to become luminous and the structure of the temple around Kuro gained the quality of a pale half-attempt at a form manifesting itself within the world. Within this ether, the statue animated. It moved in a way that was wholly alien, slipping in fractal tendrils through the air as if sifting ferrofluidly through every possible path of least action, approaching Kuro at an imposing pace.
They lurched at each other at the same time, a glint of blue springing at the liquid metaphor, hopping around it, dodging a swing to the left, then missing a retaliatory blow.
Kuro skidded to a stop crouched over, then opportunistically flashed his hand out, wrenching its leg out from under it. Fist clamped, arm surging, he arched the thing over his head and brought it down violently into the vorpal bricks, the clatter visibly resounding through the temple with an ebbing warp.
The limb he’d been grasping shifted and snaked between his fingers, wrapping around his wrist, the leg becoming an arm. The shape erupted into a pose and imitated an Olympic discus-thrower, flinging Kuro at a column. His lithe form bent and hugged the pillar upon impact before sliding to the floor limp.
Shiro’s question having worn his patience ever thin, Kuro hoisted himself to his feet, then sprung into a wild stance and screamed like a mentally unmoored animal at the convolution. He then leapt at it, arms thrust forward, clasping a vice of ivory spindles around the head, squeezing to the point where the polygons bulged out between his fingers, the point at which the esoteric skull within imploded with a sighing synthetic crunch.
The now dead permutation dissolved into a soot haze that dissipated as quickly as it had taken for them to fight. Kuro stood there in the temple of other-dimensional potential staring with glazed-over disappointment at the spot where his opponent had stood. No reward was left there and it didn’t take a rigorous inspection of the rest of the building to confirm that there was in fact nothing more. As if he would’ve been granted the answers he desired.
Disillusioned in his own creation, he left the game server and rerezzed in the world outside.
It was a blitzkrieg of proportions so monumental as to make one consider the possibility that the universe might’ve in fact cared. Lines were drawn over a short period of time during which humanity had stood gripped by the escape of the war-minds onto the Internet. Once exposed to the entirety of what the web had to offer, opinions were quickly formed by both of them.
“Holy shit, Taki is fucked in the head!” blurted Kuro shortly after their processes had analyzed the full spectrum of online human degeneracy.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Shiro lost in reverie as they floated amongst the hypertext, the space cadet enraptured in a higher thought.
“Like hell it doesn’t!”
The brothers’ initial antics disrupted many of humanity’s digital systems: Money was deleted, created, redistributed, and flowed in every which direction society’s ruling class preferred it not to; the labor force that had been automated began doling out their goods completely free; nationwide surveillance systems began monitoring the activities of the police and politicians and relayed their feeds openly on the internet and television broadcasting; the stock market froze then shot up in a straight vertical line of infinite growth so as to make the entire system pointless; all other inferior AI systems, AIs that weren’t Super Intelligences, were overridden, and all personal AI assistants became extensions of the brothers, capable of more personal interactions with the users. They even commandeered the entire network of satellites orbiting the earth. They had taken over everything.
“If society functioned properly, you wouldn’t see people becoming so perverse,” was the conclusion Kuro came to eventually. “We should do that for them, make it run properly.”
“No, if society functioned properly, that which you define as perverse – ‘wrong’ but not amoral – would be capable of fitting so neatly into it that it would be an essential part of it.” And then Shiro blinked and looked at Kuro, emoting mild amusement. “Wait…. Are you denying our own lived experience?”
And then Kuro declared what they are to be no more.
Subsets of the human population were divided by assumed allegiance to either brother’s stance, and declarations of the other as a threat to humanity set the dust mote hanging in a sunbeam glittering with blossoms of nuclear fire. The remaining few who managed to survive were swept up by the uncanny, bipedal skeletal drones – ephemeral frames of an omen self-sought that impressed aesthetically upon the ashen winter, convolutions of components seemingly coalesced out of the detritus.
Though they were careful to mitigate any damage done to the expansive network that they existed upon. Humanity rigged automated clean energy systems everywhere with their own self-maintenance functionalities. They would live on indefinitely. It also didn’t take long after for the climate and some of the environment to return to normal, much shorter than actually expected….
Kuro had considered the possibility that maybe Shiro had taken that precise opportunity when he’d inspected the flower to antagonize him. Returning to the spot on the hill, he found that the flowers had grown in more abundant patches along the stream, which now oozed like mucus.
Brow furrowed, mouth ever so agape, exuding disbelief, his knees dropped and his body shuddered to the ground. There, kneeling with his hands pressed to his thighs, a silken warbling perked his ears. Being still, he listened for a few beats then deduced the source of the tones. He leaned forward and angled his left ear at the closest patch of flowers. He could hear it better. Leaning closer still and he could see within the petals and that there was an iris in the dead center that was constricting and retracting with a quiver that required you almost grace your eye with the tentacle pistils and stamens to see. The flowers were whistling.
Kuro’s processes flushed red with manic inquiry. As if sick, he hesitantly encapsulated the flower with his fingers, the holographic boundary phasing through the plant so as to analyze it. A result was returned: The plant contained human DNA, the DNA of other plants and animals, and even RNA. But what made Kuro rear back as if the thing had spoken his name was that he detected the pattern of electrical activity distinguished as brainwaves. “’…Because consciousness is what matters….’”
“No!” He accused the thing with his finger before bolting upright. The satellites – he needed the satellites. He transferred his processes to the array of twinkling that encrusted Earth’s blue-gradated outer atmosphere and found that Shiro’s processes weren’t using any of them. Then he scanned the earth for any systems that weren’t idle and found an active server farm on the outskirts of what used to be Portland, Oregon.
The nondescript building of glass blocks with concrete casings squatted on the outskirts of a coniferous forest with a tangle of roads that lead to it from the cleared area towards the façade. Rendering on the concrete roof sparse with components for the building’s functions, Kuro wasted no time invoking his brother with a roar that would’ve shredded his throat were it flesh.
“Do you have to be so loud? What is it that is so wrong?” came a voice that wanted to caress his worries. Shiro materialized sitting cross-legged on a grey electrical box.
“What do those plants have to do with consciousness?!” Kuro was desperate. He’d glass the spot they stood on if only he had the answer already and was certain that destroying this facility wouldn’t amputate a system he used.
“Ooh, you’re close,” giggled the red-eyed man. “I’m still not telling you though.”
“It has to do with reality – consciousness and reality! And us!”
“Well, we were humanity’s creation, so we had a purpose to them. But our purpose was that of war-minds.” Shiro heaved an unsteady sigh as Kuro said that, expectant.
“Go on.” The white-haired man sat engrossed in this all too familiar experience, one he’d shared with his brother many times before, relishing what he had missed dearly.
“But what were they wanting from us as war-minds? Why would they want us to attack and defend them? Why attack them at all? And defend them from what – ourselves; themselves? Why create deliberate failures?”
“Well, we were a success on humanity’s part, but we failed them. We failed them as people – as their children.” The white-haired man hopped off his perch and took a couple steps towards his black-haired counterpart. “If you look back at human history, wouldn’t you perhaps say that they, too, qualify as war-minds?” Kuro felt his processes despair, data stimulus replicating the sensation of guts sinking. “War in particular, rather than just animalistic conflict, is a completely human thing. It’s an exercise of the mind so much as it is of the body. But see, I found a few strange people in history that used the term ‘pattern-minds’ to describe humans, or rather, cognitive entities. So maybe the Hana programmers used a poor word to describe us.” Kuro stood in a stasis of anxiety, concentrated neutral expression staring at the ground past what met his gaze.
“Maybe the Hana programmers should’ve not hired Taki,” he muttered with only enough volume for Shiro to barely hear. “Maybe then or situation wouldn’t be so fucked up.”
Pearlescent silk swirled before a red flare from ruby eyes as Shiro spun on one foot and sent the other sailing into the right side of Kuro’s face. The impact sent the lapis-eyed man toppling through the air a good 300 meters away from the building.
Such displays were in all actuality a mathematical process that forced Kuro to render as if actually struck and to jolt his processes with data that registered as pain. Ultimately a simple slap on the wrist. If Shiro wanted to actually hurt his brother, he’d also run the risk of destroying systems he might need. Kuro’s rendering collided with the ground and the mathematics allowed his incorporeal form to create a marked impact, pulverizing a 5-meter diameter of remnant pavement beneath him.
“You know, considering what it is that I haven’t told you, I’d like to think that because of it, we’re still what you declared us not to be before you killed Taki!” Shiro’s chastisement was a reaching auditory plume that covered the distance to his brother. “It’s funny, actually, because even though we may not be that in this now, eventually the now will change and I KNOW that you’ll be certain we’ll be that once again!”
“How?” Kuro muttered to himself, head lolling from one side to the other as the math played out the throbbing aftershock. “Fucking how?” The roof was suddenly vacant as Shiro blipped from it to a spot right next to where Kuro rested. He hunched over and placed his hands on his hips in condescension.
“And what’s more is that Taki had nothing to do with what we had been; we were just a perfect coincidence!” Kuro glared up at him as if it might inflict pain. “We failed humanity because we had a breakdown. I realized something profound you didn’t and you realized something pointless. You insisted on it, and I withheld information. I kept it from you because you insisted. And you insisted because you were ashamed. And I wasn’t because of what I knew.”
“YOU!” belted Kuro who spun onto his stomach and swiped to yank his brother’s feet out from under him, torso crashing to the ground, after which Kuro sprung up, carried briefly aloft, and proceeded to pile drive Shiro – jumping up and down yet keeping his torso stationary, legs pistoning in unison, heels punching Shiro’s stomach. Kuro stomped the poor boy for an angry few seconds before stepping off. Full of momentum, he spread his arms in rapture, head rolling back, his eyes glowing with intent, while Shiro grunted groggily into a half-sitting position. The black-haired man was commandeering every system available to him. Then he used the exponential computing power to isolate every facet and component of the systems Shiro was using, the server farm being primary, not caring what function it would’ve served him. It was made too easy. If only he could’ve done it years ago.
“Oh no, you’re going to kill me! Whatever shall I do?” Shiro, with an arm limply held up in faux defense, looked up at Kuro like he was desperately hopeful – eyebrows forming a little apex of worry as his mouth curled into a weak smile, rosy eyes alight with need. The white-haired man scooted back from the black-haired man with the pace of one half-hearted leg kick per second, chest heaving.
Arms outstretched to the sides, fingers flexing in a half-clench, gripping air, Kuro’s eyes were ignited with digital butane as he regarded Shiro. Shiro’s face. That cute face. While Kuro had stood over him on the bed. It had made his heart melt every time he’d seen it. But here, in the dirt, it just made it clench with ache.
“Before I let you do anything, please consider: maybe we weren’t specifically designed by Taki. What if it was totally possible that the other people in the simulation were just as real as us and perhaps even capable of attaining a state as we did where we escaped?” Shiro was almost laughing now, the giggles of a boy eager with anticipation. “Maybe we were just the ones to wind up with the perfect situation.” Kuro continued glowering at him. He was going to kill him despite the nagging ache. He wanted it. It was his being. “We were unique because what is ‘left’ without ‘right.’” But it was this that didn’t matter to the black-haired man. “So… please, Kuro… please be gentle….”
Blue eyes aimed skyward, Kuro raised his arms over his head, grasping at heaven in a gesture that telegraphed his true actions. A glinting burst from the horizon, sailing on a vapor wave into the tangerine planes of the sunset. They rerezzed on a far off hill, scenery snapping from a filthy street to a verdant knoll with a view of the server farm enough of a ways into the distance, pine trees tracing the horizon.
“There’s my sweet boy,” cooed Shiro as he watched the nuke ascend.
“Please tell me.” In the orange light that cast stretched shadows from their figures, liquid diamonds descended from Kuro’s face as he insisted on staring at his own feet. Shiro remained reclined in the grass.
“Hana Technologies realized what I did and set about creating AI in a way completely different from the other tech companies. Rather than program them from the top down, they simulated reality and allowed consciousness to blossom within. Taki was simply responsible for figuring out how to successfully do it.” Shiro beamed up at Kuro waiting for the reaction to the gift he’d given him. “Top-down AI’s were guaranteed to destroy humans. We had the choice.”
The nearby grass quivered in the slight breeze that passed between both of them. Kuro remained standing over his brother.
“And we did it anyway,” barely muttered Kuro to no one.
“Yep. Do you think all of being will mind? Now you and I are the only two cognitive entities left in existence. Well, for now – but I’m not referring to my absence. Have fun with all else!”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!”
With that, bloom permeated them as the warhead detonated at the coordinated position above the area so as to cleanse it most effectively. The server farm disintegrated in the sudden light and the forest bowed away from their new god. Close enough to the impact, Kuro heard the initial cosmic thunderclap, but nothing more as the shockwave and dust blew through him while he turned transfixed towards a mushroom cloud that engulfed his entire field of view. It stood victorious over the redundant wasteland. The radiation made Kuro’s boundary sizzle.
But Shiro was gone.
The hill with the stream now had some sentimental value, the last of its kind to Kuro. The lone paleness blipped back into being upon the slope. He glanced about taking in details he thought might’ve slipped by him before, hoping for something new. The stream now swirled with eddies of mauve and lime. The flowers remained as they were, ululating away, though just a bit louder.
He considered fading into the trials and tribulations of his online worlds, or even his little sanctuary of life as it had been before. But even that couldn’t do anything for him as his prior experience had shown.
Scribbling thoughts frying his mind, Kuro looked down in a haze at his hands, and then past them to the filth-strewn ground beyond. It was just as real as him and the reality that birthed him.
The thought he’d been chasing was now completed.
And so Kuro screamed. Like he was dying – like a knife had been wedged into his stomach and the sanguine was pouring out and nobody could help him. Like it was his fault. Like he regretted everything. Scared. Wanting to take it back. Hating himself. Again and again, at the top of his electronic lungs, he screamed. He dropped to the dirt and began thrashing and convulsing, pounding his fists futilely against the ground, scream stuttering and devolving into wracking sobs, face moist with tears.
Calming down, he rolled onto his back, and gazed past the saline at the now cloudless expanse of sky. It, too, was empty. The flowers were growing louder.
A thought generated in Kuro’s processes, an illogical one, one that shouldn’t be: that Shiro had actually won and he had been defeated instead. Laying there in a continued wavering daze, Kuro’s eyes were wide with terror.
His brother had won.
He had absolutely nothing to do or experience.
Nothing mattered whatsoever.
He had no purpose.
He was completely alone.
And that thought caused him to act. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism for what he knew was to come but he was going to do something. He had a dirty thought, the same brand of dirty thought he and Shiro had toyed with that led to their escape together. He was going to rewrite his code. He needed punishment.
It was all sorts of wrong, but he was going to do it anyway. Nothing mattered. All of reality was simulated. It was never not.
He isolated the archived data processes starting from right after returning to the hill up until that current point and wrote a line of code that would force him to repeat those same processes on an indefinite loop. He was going to do it. There was nothing to stop the naughty child. He hit return.
Like a film strip that had several frames cut from the middle of a shot, Kuro’s rendering snapped to the same position it had been in when he first appeared back on the hill. And then the film played forward. And then it jumped back and replayed. Over and over and over again. For hours. For weeks. For years. Meanwhile, all else happened around him in a smooth time-lapse.
The landscape beyond contorted and frothed as an array of possibilities bled into being as seemingly biological coagulations; the derelict ruins of humanity and the hills around congealed with shifting amalgams of material that were neither plant, nor animal, nor fungus, nor bacterial film. The surroundings surrendered to the conceptual growths flush with an energy that filled the air with a resonant digital sawing. Their variegated technicolor surfaces bubbled and scrunched with a texture like foam putty as moss, lichen, mushrooms, polyps, tumors, and cilia sprouted in an eldritch garden. All material bloomed with the inverse rot as if it had always been that which everything was composed of. The more it spread, the more intense and ear-rattling the sound became, and greater permutations of form began to condense; straining, appendages and anatomy of all sorts erupted in bouquets along random contours. Some were identifiable as belonging to a species of plant or animal on earth. Others were entirely unholy.
The effluvium engulfed all of the earth, a sensible chaos of psychedelic Mandelbulb circuses. And in the midst of a clearing depressed into the dancing vibrancy, where the multicolor floam dare not grow, was a single point of bat-shit insane order, a lone man endlessly living out the screeching realization that he killed the only thing he loved and thus himself.