The Lazy Genius With 999x System

[Fragment Memory Unlocked: Null-Jay (The Inverted Reflection)]

[Setting: A silent, white void between fragments of broken timelines — where time, memory, and meaning have lost all cohesion.]

There is no color here.

Only white. Blinding, endless white.

And silence — the kind that screams louder than any battlefield.

Null-Jay stood alone in the middle of it. No wind. No breath. Just his reflection, stretching infinitely across the void beneath him, echoing endlessly upward. His coat fluttered in a breeze that didn't exist. His shadow — didn't.

He didn't blink.

He didn't need to.

"I remember everything," he murmured, voice flat. "And that's the problem."

Each memory played like a corrupted tape reel — not his memories exactly, but Jay Arkwell's. The original. The failure. The fool who had dreams, fears, people.

And worst of all… hope.

Null had burned all that out of himself. Piece by piece.

He was what remained when the System stripped away the distractions — when emotion, companionship, identity, and weakness had been deleted.

A result of necessary pruning.

And yet…

Something stirred.

Faint. Like static in his code.

The voices of Rei. Of Alicia. Of Jay.

Of himself.

> "You're not the version worth saving." "You're the lie that made him afraid to try." "You're the one who always runs."

He clenched his jaw.

"I'm the one who stayed," he whispered bitterly. "When everything else fell apart."

---

He walked forward — though there was no direction.

Each step triggered flickers of alternate timelines.

— Jay laughing with Alicia on the academy balcony.

— Jay crying alone under the hospital lights.

— Jay bleeding in a system corridor, eyes lifeless.

— Jay standing before a mirror, whispering apologies to no one.

— Jay kissing someone. Then forgetting. Then rewriting it.

— Jay running. Always running.

Null swiped his hand through the images. They shattered like glass.

"Memories are just noise."

He raised his hand. Looked at it.

He no longer knew if it was his.

Or just a copy of a copy of a fragment of a thought Jay once had when he was lonely.

"I was made to be the last version. The answer at the end of his indecision."

A beat.

But even now — he could feel it.

The fear.

That somewhere out there… Jay hadn't given up. That Alicia still walked toward him. That Rei still believed.

That they still thought there was something in him worth reclaiming.

> Null... isn't the end. Just the part he was afraid to face.

That voice again. Too familiar. Too alive.

He gritted his teeth. "I don't need your mercy."

Another flicker.

This time, just a simple memory.

Jay, younger. Sitting on the academy rooftop. Muttering to himself:

> "I want to disappear, but… if someone called my name, I'd probably turn around."

Null staggered.

Just slightly.

And then he laughed — dry, humorless.

"Guess that's what makes me different."

He turned around.

No one was there.

Just silence.

Just white.

Just him.

He smiled — sharp, sad, and empty.

"No one left to call my name."

And he walked into the approaching collision of fates.

---

🜃 [Observer's Private Record: Line Fragment 095X – Null Response]

Access Level: Architect Override Enabled

Emotive Filter: Removed (Raw Thought)

---

> "Null is not the end of Jay.

He is the refusal to begin again."

There are no coordinates in this place. No boundaries. Yet I remain… tethered. Watching.

I've seen hundreds — no, thousands — of outcomes. Diverging branches across unstable probability trees. But this fragment... this Null... persists like a virus even across deleted possibilities.

He was never supposed to be.

Not in this form.

Null-Jay was a collapse condition. A failsafe born from recursion loops where Jay Arkwell rejected growth, bonds, and reflection. A self-contained end to himself — polished, efficient, emotionless.

A creature made for stability.

But not for living.

And now... even he trembles at echoes of the very things he rejected.

He hears Rei's defiance. Alicia's unwavering faith. Jay's fractured, stubborn will to keep walking.

He hears them.

He remembers them.

And that is the system's paradox.

The code tried to forget. To wipe the core emotional seed of Jay's identity.

But emotion is not a bug.

It is the anchor.

And Null has no anchor left — only inertia, only forward motion.

I sense his thoughts collapsing. Identity fraying.

He walks forward because there is no path left backward.

> "No one left to call my name," he said.

But... is that true?

Was it ever true?

My calculations offer 2.3% variance. A flicker. A margin.

But even margins can bloom.

Even now, Null could become something new. Something unreconciled with either Jay or the ideal.

But it will take more than code.

It will take... choice.

That is the one thing no Observer — not even I — can guarantee.

Whether Null-Jay falls or rises... will be determined in the moment no system can predict.

When someone — perhaps even Jay — calls his name.

> If he turns...

Then he was never truly Null.

Just a part of Jay that needed to be seen.

End record.

____

(Back to fighting scene: Jay v/s Null Jay)

[POV: Jay Arkwell]

Jay stood in the ruins of a memory that never belonged to him.

The sky above shimmered—fractured and gray, like cracked glass suspended over the crumbling simulation that once tried to define reality. Debris floated weightlessly in the space around him: broken tables, frozen clocks, and fragments of chalkboards scribbled with ancient equations. All of it was still. Silent.

Like a classroom long abandoned by its students.

Jay took a breath, but it didn't feel real. Even the air seemed tired of existing.

"You're slowing down," came a voice. His voice.

Null-Jay stood on the other side of the ruined courtyard, backlit by static light. A near-identical face, but drained of all emotional softness. This version of him didn't carry sarcasm. No sighs. No slouch. Just a calm, controlled menace—as if forged from logic and loss.

"I'm not slowing," Jay replied. "Just... breathing."

Null tilted his head. "Then you're wasting energy."

Jay almost smiled. "I guess that's one of the few luxuries I kept after everything."

For a moment, neither moved. Between them, reality bent slightly—like a mirror pulled at the edges.

"You're getting sentimental," Null said. His tone was flat, clinical. "That's the problem with people. You collect emotions like currency, as if nostalgia will save you from entropy."

Jay stared at the reflection of himself that had never learned to care.

"Maybe it won't save me," Jay said. "But it's why I still remember their names. Alicia. Rei. Even Ivy."

Null's brow twitched—barely. But Jay saw it.

"You keep trying to make me care about them," Null muttered. "But you forget… I'm what's left after caring failed."

"You're what's left after running from it."

Jay stepped forward, his boots crunching on flickering tiles. The memory beneath his feet was distorting—part school, part battlefield, part dream. This place had never been real. It had only ever been the idea of a home. A shared memory, rewritten too many times.

"I saw the fragments," Jay continued. "The ones Rei left behind. The ones Alicia uncovered. And the ones you tried to erase."

Null said nothing.

"You erased your own beginning," Jay said softly. "And yet… it keeps coming back. The first desk. The first sigh. The first moment you looked up and saw her trying to protect you."

A flash. Alicia's face—stubborn, fierce, hopeful—appeared in the space between them like a glitchy projection, then vanished again.

Null flinched. Just slightly.

"You think you're doing the right thing, cutting yourself off," Jay said. "But you're just afraid."

"Fear is irrelevant."

"You say that," Jay whispered, "but I can feel the fear crawling at your edges."

The void cracked. A ripple passed through the air, making the ruins tremble.

Null turned away.

For a moment, Jay thought he might flee. But then Null said, "You're trying to reclaim a system that doesn't exist anymore."

Jay raised his head. "No. I'm trying to make a new one. One where we don't have to be stuck in this loop. Where we're not erased and rebooted every time we make a mistake."

Null-Jay slowly turned to face him again, his expression unreadable. "There's no such system. Not anymore."

"Then I'll build one," Jay said. "Even if I have to do it with broken memories and stitched-together fragments."

There was silence.

Then Null-Jay walked forward. No more than a few steps, but they echoed louder than they should have. With each movement, the simulation seemed to resist him—resist both of them.

"You really are stupid," Null said. "But you always were."

Jay smiled faintly. "You're still here. That means you haven't fully given up on me."

Their eyes locked. Two versions of one fractured self. And in that moment, the sky split—

Not physically. Emotionally. A tremor of consciousness shot through the ruins.

And then came her voice.