Broken Optimism

432 was never one for formal clothing.
He felt it held him back, and was far too reluctant when he needed to wear anything that strayed too far from his established style.
Even at meetings with leaders of other nations, while he did wear a suit, the collar of his bright purple turtleneck jumper was always visible.

His bright purple jumper was no longer bright. It was now a desaturated lilac, worn at the edges. The fact it was a turtleneck was now irrelevant, too, because he never went anywhere without his, now signature, frayed, green scarf.
He, for the fifth time, considered putting on his glasses; however, he, for the fifth time, thought better of it.
Ever since his left eye went dark, wearing his glasses intensified its pain tenfold. The reason for this, and the reason for the eye being black in the first place, was because its pupil had grown massively during his time in the Fifth, a necessary process for him to have survived there.
The glasses hurt to wear because the lenses focused even more light into his already hypersensitive retina.
432 did not know any of this; all he knew is that wearing the glasses was like stabbing himself in the eye, and so, for the fifth time, he decided to leave the abandoned convenience store without them on. Sure, he wouldn’t be able to see very well, but it wasn’t like there was much to see out there anyways.

In all honesty, even before the Third broke, the Zeola River was always a barren, desolate place. It was only ever used for trading between nations. Of course, 432 planned to change this with the founding of the ZW colony of the XY Syndicate, which would’ve brought life and community to the area.
432 never got to carry out the plan. Instead, he found ZEOLA:015. From there, it all went downhill.

On that train of thought, 432 began to think about ZF. He realised, now, that his little poem of admitance would make many associate him with the almost cult-like organisation, and while he understood the reasoning behind that, it still frustrated him.
As he found out from his few conversations with the Wards, Zenari Fauroz’ true intentions were more than just research; they had a final goal, and that final goal was to evacuate to a higher Realm. They were entirely unaware the Third Realm would not be the only one destroyed.

432’s plan was far more grandiose; he did not want to take over the world, or to convert it, or even for all the people in it to meet a violent end.
He wanted the universe itself to die.
With the knowledge he had stolen from the Fifth, he was planning to finally make it into the First Realm, and, instead of saving it, burn it all to the ground. If all went according to plan, this would cause a chain reaction which would, put simply, end the world.

What he did not want the universe to know was that he was still slightly hopeful. 432 hoped that something or someone would come along to make it all right again, to stop him, maybe even give him the motivation to keep on going. It seemed impossible, and yet there was always a shard of light in the back of his head which said otherwise.

Wait.

A shard of light. There was a literal shard of light in the back of his head, he could sense it. He had never realised it, but he could always sense it, leaving burn marks in his unending pessimism. And, just now, for the first time in a while, a familiar voice spoke.

“HELLO, CDXXXII.”

“…Syro?”

“ALMOST.”

“I thought you were gone.”
“I AM.”
“How am I hearing you?”
“YOU’RE NOT. I’M A RECONSTRUCTION OF ALL THE GOOD THINGS YOU REMEMBER ABOUT ME.
“THE FIFTH MANIFESTED THESE MEMORIES AS A PHYSICAL GUIDE IN YOUR HEAD, IN ANTICIPATION FOR YOUR PROMOTION TO WARDSHIP.
“I’M HERE TO HELP YOU FIND YOURSELF AGAIN, TO HELP YOU IMPROVE.”

Silence.

“HELLO?”

A knife is lifted.

“DON’T DO IT.”

As the voice screams, a gap opens up in the back of 432’s skull, letting a flood of discoloured blood loose.

The shard dies.

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