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" In all things a beginning is found. • A creator must stand apart, a writer must write, an idea must live. The idea was born of Prizme. He breathed, and nothingness became more. But a single breath is nothing, not even a beginning, not even close. And so others reached out, rubbed pale limbs and filled them with blood, turning flesh from ivory to scarlet. • Ellen saw, her eyes capturing images, holding them close before bringing them forth. Black and white and shades of grey merged and mingled and, finally, pictures and words came together, Prizme and Ellen's creations combined, twisting and merging, making the idea grow. The pixels were rejected, too often seen before, the grain grown in its place. The new world was shunted, in part, in favour of the old. • The creators became many, two to three and three to four, their numbers increasing, their learning new and untested. With each limb, every inch of flesh, each shuddering breath, the idea grew. It was, in fact, no longer an idea by then. It breathed alone. It's creators learned, mistakes were made and wrongs were done and yet...and yet the creation lived on. • It was dressed in fine clothes, it's heart represented by the things it wore, Emilia cladding each contour with care and devotion. Janelle held the creation's hands and helped it walk, guiding each step, every movement, allowing it to stumble into the light of day, blinking and breathing and no longer merely an idea. No longer just a creation. It was now, and always, a beginning all of its own. And then Rosemarie opened the door, let in the light, letting the world see the creation speak it's first tentative words, hear the voice tremble and quaver in the fledgling days of being. • It came to question the world around it, curiosity prodding and prying into the mysteries of the world, learning that truth is but a word and not always a promise. That opinions, taken as fact, could hold as much danger as any blade. It learned, the thing, it learned. And then, once it was grown, it took a name. Decoherence."