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What constitutes a human?
Is it the physical parts that sum up the humanoid body? Is it the sentient consciousness and web of internal complexities that differentiate them from other species? Is it the way they interact with the world and form connections? Assimilation of cultures? Innate creativity?
If there were people out there who could do all of the above, would having special enhancements still make them so?
This is the dilemma Nix Voltare faces every day. Every hour. Every minute. Every second.
He used to be fully human with such problems never even fathomable to begin with. But this was way back then, when he would sit in the loving embrace of his mother's arms. She would gently stroke his hair in front of the fireplace as he told her about his day, and the other kids he met outside whenever he felt like exploring. Dinner would always be served with warm smiles and breakfasts were always looked forward to after the sun rises.
Then it happened. And everything he knew and loved that made him human disappeared.
His body no longer worked the same. All comfort and routine in his life vanished, leaving a gaping hole in his soul behind. Body parts were lost. Connections were cut. Too much abandoned behind in the dust.
To which he now asks himself the same question, over and over again.
Am I still human?
Such an odd question, it is. He breathes. He wants. He desires. He jokes. He laughs.
But then there are the days where his memories short-circuit on him and he's left floating in an unbearable void. Tears don't fall and giggles don't escape. These are the days when his phantom limbs ache and he can't quite picture his mother's face anymore. When his whole body is a giant block of ice, unmoving and unfeeling.
Is he laughing because he has a sense of humor? Or is he laughing because his machinery is telling him to do so?
He misses the days when pain would spread around a scraped knee. He misses the days when his mother would surprise him with gifts and he would feel loved because he knew he was loved, not because there's a technological force telling him so. These thoughts spiral downward in a continuous slope until he’s left questioning which parts of himself are actually human or not.
And that’s not counting the experiments. The countless alterations of his body so painful they altered his state of mind. Ones that broke him into so many pieces that he would’ve questioned his humanity even without the metallic physical alterations.
Then one day he stumbles upon a person too much like himself. He has pink hair and mismatched features just like himself. They don’t know each other, but when he wanders off into a random arcade one day, something in the universe clicks.
He introduces himself as Rosco. A zombie made up of different parts. A product of multiple experimentations.
Someone just like him.
Nix asks him if he thinks he’s human—his very first impression of a stranger he's never met. He’s gone so long without proper human interaction that any tact is lost. But Rosco doesn’t seem surprised or disgusted. He just shrugs his shoulders as if it’s any other mundane question.
“Does it really matter, bro? Humans are overrated anyway.”
It’s a small statement. Stupid, even. But then again, so are all the thoughts and conspiracies inside his head.
And he might be right…Nix has been so caught up in labels to save his sanity that he failed to look outside into the brighter picture. The one where such trivalities don’t matter and he’s able to live as is. Calling himself human won’t change anything. It’s only a lie to make him feel better about himself. A title that might not be worth the struggle after all.
So he continues on, all the way forward until he meets his true purpose—Ravanis.