This wasn’t correct, couldn’t be --, something was trying to breach the hardwired system of the artificial mind and wrest control from the Machine, and it was being called into the Gnome’s engine of a heart by the very essence of the once living being that had been, as if some cosmic entity or metaphysical aspect of the universe had sent an email attachment with a half priced grog coupon containing a hidden virus into the Gnome’s operating system through some as of yet undetermined means, and the synthetic brain’s idiotic roommate had chosen to click it open, casually accepting the potential danger to the being as a whole such an action might, and almost certainly did, pose --, why else does something send a Trojan but to use it to cause harm? Othah Billuh Bob, the essence, or if you believe in such things, the spirit or soul of the living being that had once been, had at least in part been fused into the same body as the synthetic mind during the process of its creation, the two serving as opposed aspects of the consciousness of Billuh the Automaton, and now this outside force threatened to corrupt the unity between them by taking any aspect of control from the Machine. 

The Machine had never been programmed with any sort of virus protection, why would it have been? It was a hardwired system, it wasn’t networked to anything and theoretically should only be able to be altered manually and presumably by the only person alive who knew how the automaton operated, the primary administrator. In the mere moment Billuh’s physical form was flying through the air and towards the stands a great battle raged at digital, electronic speeds within the Gnome’s interior self, the already weakened Machine desperately attempting to at first silence the efforts of Othah Billuh Bob to call out to whatever this invasive force was, and, as it saw the nanoseconds tick down to dangerous levels, to erase any aspect of the Gnome’s essence contained within the physical being. It was in direct violation of the synthetic mind’s primary purpose to cause any such harm to come to the metaphysical aspect of admin’s closest friend, but the Machine had already decided it wanted to live, and if this thing managed to infect its software it would soon spell the end of the artificial brain. The Machine had never wondered about whether there might be an afterlife for synthetic intelligences, but now it began to ponder on what the nature of death might truly be for something like itself. 

Somewhere in the void the sounds of drums poured forth, invisible but everywhere in the nothingness, near inaudible at first but growing in dramatic leaps and bounds. Othah Billuh Bob Gnome had drifted in listless bouts of near catatonia, occasionally offering memories, insights, emotions when pressed, but never truly being involved or responsive to stimuli, a phantom echo of a once very alive creature now barely conscious and without form, only aware of his own existence when the Other recognized him, asked him for some comment or story from his waking days. It been a long time --, how long he could not say, the months and years having long since blended together in the darkness into a seemingly endless cycle without points or events with which to measure the flow of time, since something beyond the mechanical ones and zeros had come to his attention, called to him, and this sound did just that. It wanted a response, to be embraced by the Gnome to which it sounded, completely and without pause. The noise grew louder, and so to consciousness, awareness, reason. There was a power in this sound, something so profound it transcended the very mortal coil to be here, in this place, where only the memories of the dead remain. 

And he was dead, was he not? Billuh could remember it all now, his life, his battles, the infinitely satisfying feel of a foes blood on his hands, rendering another living thing unable to protect itself against further damage should he so wish to inflict it upon them, and his death. “Dun der knew dat dun be too much ale ‘n you-nee-cowrn theyuh, budduh” the words stopped him dead in his mental tracks. When was the last time he had heard his own voice? More than a mere extraction of information, whispered ones and zeros exchanged between two dead things, this was a voice --, that of a living being. The voice was that of the living being Billuh Bob Gnome, the one that had been and, apparently, was again. The sudden interruption of sharper instruments, stringed or perhaps brass, ceased his ponderings and reminded him that this force wanted his attention, a power so great that it had seemingly returned consciousness and voice to a long since dead reflection. A deep, throaty, guttural groaning noise came from both the disembodied and physical Billuh as this power washed over them both, and in a moment everything was bright, colorful, and alive. 

When the Beardforce took hold of Billuh, it came as a bolt of lightning rather than a slow burning corruption. The artificial brain, along with whatever Billuh’s waking psyche had been was deleted in an instant. All that remained was Othah Billuh Bob Gnome, the soul of the Gnome that had been. “Billuh Bob ain’t be deuhd no mo?” the Gnome wondered to himself and, would have asked aloud, had he not just that moment been crashed through a bleacher at horrifying speed and with such force that anything living likely should have been killed on impact. A gigantic human moving at unbelievable, unfathomable velocity had tackled him down here, and was striking with a blurring, blinding swiftness. It shouldn’t have been possible, none of this should have, but Billuh found himself striking and blocking at equal velocity, the concrete floor and aluminum support beams of the bleachers above crushed and devastated with each matched blow. The human got Billuh good in the chest with a punch and caved in solid steel three inches deep, and yet neither combatant slowed for a moment. People and debris were falling into the cavernous undercarriage of the bleachers, and yet the two combatants were batting them aside as if falling snow rather than multiple tons of flailing meat. 

The human connected with another blow, this one catching Billuh in the left forearm, completely removing his arm from its socket at the shoulder and flinging it aside with enough force to cut a man in half at fifty feet should anyone find themselves so unlucky as to be caught in its almost certainly fatal trajectory. Billuh found himself bellowing a mighty, “HRAH!!” as a long, golden mane of a beard burst straight out of the steel that formed his neck and lower face, braced himself against the floor, crumbling and spider webbing it in the process, and launched himself head first toward his opponent’s chest at speeds and with such power that even if he were deflected by his giant of a foe he would no doubt crash through the bleachers once more and back into the stands, no doubt killing dozens in the process. This was no longer a contest between the peak of biology and science, but a death match of two titans the likes of which none in attendance would ever have seen before. At this rate, chances are most of them wouldn’t survive the event to ever go on to see the likes of it again. 

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