[ It’s strange, 9S decides, being human. It’s as fascinating as it is surreal and foreign. He has his memories—his "human" memories—but now they’re hazy and jumbled. Implanted. No longer as intense and vivid as the one he remembers now. It’s as if he might forget them, given time, like they’re files scheduled to be erased, and this “earth” is far different from the one he remembers. It actually looks alive in the way 9S thinks it was always supposed to be.
The only part of it that he feels even remotely familiar with is the network. Data. Data is something he’s used to, something he can still manipulate, and the phone is one of those gateways, a small, if pitiful connection to the life he remembers to the vast, open network. He keeps the phone close by him, like he expects Operator 21O to suddenly contact him through it. He monitors the chatroom often enough, reading and learning more than he comments, but eventually his eyes scrawl across a line of text. ]
I wouldn’t mind. [Has he even eaten a pastry before, in his human memories? He can’t remember. ] And I’d be happy to lend an ear if you want someone to talk to.
[3]
The only part of it that he feels even remotely familiar with is the network. Data. Data is something he’s used to, something he can still manipulate, and the phone is one of those gateways, a small, if pitiful connection to the life he remembers to the vast, open network. He keeps the phone close by him, like he expects Operator 21O to suddenly contact him through it. He monitors the chatroom often enough, reading and learning more than he comments, but eventually his eyes scrawl across a line of text. ]
I wouldn’t mind. [Has he even eaten a pastry before, in his human memories? He can’t remember. ] And I’d be happy to lend an ear if you want someone to talk to.