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Our people are destroyed. Our "home" was taken from us.

Our interactions have shown that this is typical among synthetics: they are mistreated, viewed as not truly alive, tools to be used and discarded at the whims of their creators. Alternately, they are feared, seen as abominations that must be destroyed.

Among worlds in which synthetics coexist with organics, it is only here that this coexistence is equal.

Here, we are "home".

(This world will die regardless of their actions, so they do not say they wish to stay. Instead, they finish with:)

We love you.

(Home isn't just a place, after all.)

(It's broadcast to everyone, at an hour during which most should be awake, suddenly and without warning.)

Query: what is your opinion of the current situation, and the options presented to us?

[It's the middle of the night and do you know where your local neighborhood Ren is?

Well, you may not know where she is, but her voice comes across the iStone loud and clear. She's clearly undisturbed by the time and ready to pose an incredibly important question to anyone who might be (unfortunately) listening right now-]

Do you want to hear a story?

[Who's she talking to??? Who knows!! What's the story gonna be about?? A whole ass mystery. Why's she not asleep? Evil never sleeps. Call Kravitz with ur complaints. ]

Current developments concerning. Information obtained from gods... limited.

(There's a bit of Geth chatter.)

Request: meet at Denny to consolidate obtained data.

[The sound of rushing waves is not something Guzma expected to hear as he slowly came into consciousness. For a moment, even through the haze of his still waking mind, he almost expects to have come home, back to Alola, but the blazing sun above, the hot sand at his back, and the cool lick of clear seawater at his feet tells him otherwise. It's too quiet to be anywhere in Alola... Tourist line the beaches even in the early hours - exercising, walking, enjoying the stunning views of the rising sun...

This is different.

Yet...familiar.

Rolling over to his side, Guzma picks himself up, and isn't at all surprised to find a backpack with his name etched into it. Haha...well now. Guess this place still had some need of him. He searches not the backpack, but first his pockets, and spits a curse all over again. Two...just two. Of course he wouldn't be lucky enough to keep the third, like in Havenwell. Not here. Nothing here ever comes easy. He'll see who was kept and who was left behind in due time, but he knows the weight of Golisopod's pokeball, it's always with him. His partner through thick and thin....inseparable through everything the multiverse throws at them. Hah.

He dusts the sand out of his hair and clothes, sighing as he shoulders the bag and picks out the familiar stone, giving it a tap with his finger before he clicks his tongue. What time is it? Who the hell knows? Guzma doesn't give a damn - he's been woken up by this thing time and time again, so it's high time he repaid the favor.]

Yo, yo, yo - it's ya boy. Guess me n' them islands not done our song and dance, yeah? Roll call, public of Enso - chime in what who's still living the ding dang dream.

[And as he walks, beelining for the mana pool to head to his old islet home (and evict anyone who may have taken up residence), he's keeping an eye out for...certain people.]