Year one hundred and nine.

It's oddly quiet now, quiet and lacking in screaming, or crying, or long, endless speeches from the AI once deemed as your god, your personal hell.

He couldn't be off, no, nothing could turn him off or shut him down.

He was always on, always there, always present, even in silence.

And this was only proven by the feeling of eyes constantly burning into you, like a child's face pressed against a zoo enclosure.

And though the watcher couldn't be found, you had enough of your mind left to know it was him.

You were hungry, and yet too sick to eat, thirsty and yet put off by liquid, tired and bursting with energy, achy but mobile.

Your body was only together from his powers surely.

Part of you was tempted to speak or do something, but the idea of the break ending was too much of a pain for any entertainment.

Even if your mind was slipping from boredom.