Buzz opened his eyes to nothing.
No ground. No sky. Just light so pale it didn't have color. It pulsed like breath, slow and deliberate. Each pulse tugged at something inside him, as if the world were inhaling through his chest.
He floated in it, weightless. Every movement sent ripples through the light. He couldn't feel his claws or wings, just the echo of them. Somewhere distant, the memory of pain flickered and died.
"Guess this is what being deleted feels like," he muttered.
His own voice didn't travel. It just folded back into him, softer, distorted. The sound replayed in the same tone but not the same meaning.
*Deleted feels like becoming.*
Buzz twitched. "Great. Even my thoughts have subtitles now."
He tried to move, to anchor himself to anything. Every direction felt the same—thick and empty. Then, out of the glow, shapes began to form: outlines of himself, dozens of them, hovering in the light. They moved when he moved, but not quite right—each a frame too slow.
