It happened.. Scaramouche had lost the gnosis. His reason for being, his soul.. His heart. How was he supposed to continue on living if no fiber of his being was convinced that someone like him, a man-made person, could be human?

With a heavy feeling, Scaramouche dragged himself over the ground outside into the pouring rain, his body resting against an old oak tree by the river. The breeze was cold, and the weather was just like him.

Completely hopeless.