Author's note
I've been searching for the best subjective version of this song for ages and now I think I've found it.

Preferring the one with the not-hooman singers, I was suddenly struck with an idea. It's short and sweet, but it'll do ;3.

Super cute song! Idea! Awesome : D!!

So here we are :3!! Time to confuse my readers again!

———

There's a rusty old hunk of metal in the middle of the field, overgrown with daisies, that no one's touched for apparent decades. Some even say centuries.

No one can tell what it's supposed to be. Years of weathering and battering eroded the original form away into nothing but a frame for little flowers to cling onto.

Ah well. When the field's space is used tomorrow, it will be removed, just as all other litter is disposed of.

The company's new industrial expansion will erect new factories to increase production rates; it'd offer a plethora of new jobs for fellow workers to oversee. They needn't actually labour, since that was their whole schtick. 'Workers oversee the producers'.

They have made a lot of effort to recover from the Accident. Even if they pretend they hadn't done; no one can deny all the effort taken to recover from something like that, absolutely no one.

Still, decades later, the catastrophic event is shrouded in mystery and only one thing is for sure:

The company is overjoyed with these new opportunities.

———

"Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3..."

"And a one, and a two, aaaand-!"

"Oh, yes, they can do gymnastics now?"

"Well, perhaps. You never know what they can or can't do, sweet face!"

"... Well... I-I mean... No! I'm going to- I'm going to wake up tomorrow, middle of the night, right, and I'm going to see one of them just standing in the corner of my bedroom-!"

"Oh, no, no and no! That's creepy! Scary. No! I don't like. You like? You like that?"

"Wha- no?! That's why I said it- that's- you're- that's just a horrible idea, that is, it's a useless-"

"..."

"... Good grief."

"Wait, wait, no, don't go, sweet face! You didn't finish-"

"Leaving without finishing is my thing!"

"No, don't leave me alone without at least saying goodbye! Sweet face! Come back!"

———

That was where the tape, and the truth, ended.

They turned off the recording machine before it could repeat.

And left.

———

Dear —

I'm so sorry. The experiment was a success. At least, at first. It wasn't. It wasn't good.

I don't know what went wrong: at first, everything looked fine, great even, when all of a sudden... It exploded, —. It exploded.

Oh grief, the rancid smell is something I'll never forget... I don't want to think about the things I saw. It was just... Awful, —, it was horrid.

I-I don't know what went wrong... I can't find ——, I can't find them... I don't want to think that they're gone but every day that goes by, I can't... I can't help it...

I don't know where the subject has gone either. ——— has disappeared into thin air. We weren't finished. We weren't done working on them, it's not safe for them out there!

They say that it's a necessary loss. They're not letting a search crew go out not because they can't afford it, but because they can't afford it. They're saying this is all... Necessary...

Kill me now if any of this was 'necessary'. Safe, they said. Revolutionary and safe, they said. A fat lot that means when you're... I'm...

...

—, I'm scared. Please, please don't look for me. I can't lose you too.

Or if you're already gone, then dear whichever tortured soul is reading this, please just let me be ignorant and write these stupid letters, dedicated to the image of —, still safe and sound in a little cottage down by the sea.

I don't care if you don't even know —. No one did.

—, I love you.

It looks like I won't be coming home tonight.

Yours truly.

———

He opens his eyes to the sight of ashen grounds. He blinks once, and they are green.

Biffa dismisses the error, as he always does.

It had been happening for as long as he could remember. He would rest easy, and arise to find the world burnt to a crisp. Then he would blink, and things would go back to normal.

He wonders how much further he needs to go.

It was a test, after all.

Maybe when he reaches the goal, he'll know what he's being tested on too.

———

Biffa decided some time ago that Spring would be his favourite season.

He could not pinpoint the exact date he deliberated such. He guesses it was some time after his seventh Spring, when he first encountered white butterflies.

Once, he could identify it down to its exact species. He can not anymore. He wonders what it could be and repeats a mantra every Spring; he hopes they will tell him what the butterfly was called.

For now, he calls them 'daisy butterflies': their wings remind him of daisy petals. He is very proud he remembers the name of a daisy. They once gave him an entire selection of music to play, though he can no longer play many of them.

Throughout the years, he has always been able to play one specific song though. It is about daisies. He likes his song.

Biffa plays it every so often. He does not want to forget his song, or his daisies, or his daisy butterflies.

He plays it now.

Biffa is content.

———

On the other side of the ocean, there are creatures. Biffa sometimes sees them whenever his journey takes him by the coast.

Summer sunsets are nice here, framed by nothing but the vast sea.

Sometimes, he sees dark shapes moving beneath the blue ocean. He does not know what they are, but he wonders how it feels to glide beneath water like the wind glides through the trees.

He cannot go into the water. He doesn't think he can anymore, but he does not want to risk testing it, no matter how much he wonders.

Some of them might be dolphins.

He thinks he likes dolphins.

———

Nighttime is calm. Not always.

While much of his wear and tear was due to time, some was due to direct damaging. From accidents, from mistakes and from the things in the night.

He used to be able to see very well at night, as it it were still day. His nighttime sight is not as good anymore: he barely sees five feet in front of himself now, despite Autumn days only starting to whisk away the sun.

It makes things harder.

Once, he was afraid, and became reckless. He did not see the path end. He did not see the fall. Foolish.

Through that, he has learned to steel his nerves and harden his body against the night. He will not fear. Fear destroys. He will tarry and hesitate and walk, no matter how much he wishes to run.

Pain is something he does not feel. Yet it is something he feels; this night, he did not fear enough.

He hides. He fears. He makes himself small, nursing the cracked stump of his arm.

Above, the night sky looms, silent and still.

Biffa will mourn tonight.

———

It is Winter.

He does not remember how many Winters he has seen before. Some time after his twentieth Winter, he found he could not collect an infinite number of memories.

Thus, he only keeps a hold of his most precious ones. Others are forgotten and erased. Sometimes, he doesn't realise it until later.

He watches as birds fly away, away, from where they once lived. He doesn't know why they do so, but it must be because of Winter, as it is what occurs every Winter.

One group soars above his head now, in a triangular sort of shape. He watches them fly by and wishes them luck wherever they travel to.

Perhaps they shall pass by the ocean. With their wings, they might see treasures beneath the deep blue that Biffa has never seen.

He must ask them when he reaches his goal, and he passes the test. He must ask.

———

He aches.

He does not know why.

He does not feel pain.

He has no need to hurt.

The sun is awake today. It is very beautiful. Yet he aches, in wake of its beauty.

He does not fear in Spring. He likes Spring. He sees Spring every time it is Spring.

Yet, his memory, faded and worn, thinks he will miss it.

He cannot.

He does not want to miss the dolphins of summertime seas. Nor the peace found in dangerous Autumn nights.

He has yet to discover what the birds fly towards every Winter. He still does not know the true name of the daisy butterflies.

Perhaps they know. He has not reached the goal yet, so perhaps they think he can still make it. They will find him if he cannot.

Then, he will not miss anything.

He aches.

He pretends he does not.

———

He opens his eyes to the sight of ashen grounds. He blinks once, and they are green.

Biffa sits down on the soft green grass. It's nice here. He thinks he likes it.

There are flowers in the fields. They are small and white. They are daisies. He plays his song and imagines they are pleased with him.

Biffa is content.

He waits for his creators to find him and bring him back home.

He waits.