i exist [as the definition of nonexistence]

A continuation of "Nova".

An attempt to write from the perspective of you, the reader:

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"State your name."

How can you state a name if you don't have one? You don't have anything, really, but a vague notion that you are a sentient being, you exist, and you are currently sitting in a white room. Or maybe it's just glaringly bright. You try to look at your hands, but there's really nothing to look at. You start to wonder if maybe you don't actually exist. but that's absurd, because you are thinking.

"State your name."

But you. Don't. Have. One. Doesn't the voice in your head realize this? No-- not in your head. The voice is outside, in front of you and decidedly feminine, though with a slightly cold edge to it. You say nothing in response, because there's nothing to say. It's as if you've just sprung into existence, and you have no memory or recollection of a time before.

Did you even exist before now?

It's a mystery.

"State your name."

You have so much knowledge. You know every star in each multiverse. You know the multitudes of languages in every world. You know the animals and people and creatures, you know the thoughts and memories and doubts.

So you wonder for a moment, and then you pluck a word out of that expanse of knowledge, one that sticks out to you.

"State your na--"

"Nova."

You like the way it sounds as your lips curve around the two syllables. No. Va. Nova. A star increasing in brightness and then returning to normal over a period of time. You frown, because the definition springs forward in your mind without your permission. It's as if simply thinking of the word plugged it into a search engine, and you were presented with the answer to a question you had not asked.

"Nova."

You look up, because that is not your voice, nor the female from before. It is the voice of a man, and it makes you think of warm milk and butter melting and a crackling fire. It is the voice of summer. It is the voice that makes you decide the woman was the voice of winter.

"I'm Nova," you say again, and your voice is not one, but two-- a cacophonous sound, like a monotone robot desperately trying to add inflection to it's words. So you repeat yourself, and it frustrates you that you cannot put a gender to yourself. But then you are not upset, because you see no problem with remaining a blank slate: you find that you like the mystery of it, the not knowing. You think that you are a human who can be anything, because maybe you aren't really human to begin with.

"Welcome, Nova. We are Admix, and we are here to inform you of your purpose."

Admix means to mix with something else. What are they, and what are they mixed with? You want to dwell on this, but they don't give you the time: the light is receding, and you are beginning to see things. High walls made of glistening chrome, a low table topped with a thin white sheet and an array of medical tools. Everything is clean and pristine and surprisingly monochromatic. You think that surely there's color in this world, and then you see them.

They are Admix. A single being, and yet two separate entities at once. Ice blue and ember red, frost and fire. Complete contradictions melted together to create the creature that stands in front of you. The man is smiling warmly, but the woman is scowling at something behind you. It's hard to catalog their faces as two, even though you know that there are, in fact, two of them. Whenever you try to focus on one individual face, they both blur, going out of focus, but if you study them in your peripheral vision, it is easier to see the distinctions. The woman has a sharp, pointed nose that curves slightly upward, and lips that seem perpetually twisted into a snarl. Her eyes are emotionless and black, looking directly at anything but you. The man, though, is beaming, honey eyes unafraid. He's got a nice sort of face, thick red beard and freckled, sun-kissed skin.