It was like Finnian got hit in the head with a ton of bricks; everything finally made sense. Like finding the single thread that undoes a gargantuan knot or finding the final missing piece of a puzzle. The thing that had been keeping Finn going all this time. It was thighs.
"Oh my god, I get it."
The old man looked at the devilish grin that had seemed to possess the boy's lips with concern.
"Ok, la oss gå, det er på tide å spise." The old man stated.
After wrapping the baby in some cloth, the old man brought the child with him back to the kitchen and gave him some of the reheated soup that the children had earlier, giving Finnian some time to recall more of his old memories.
My desire for thighs was not some lewd obsession; my admiration specifically for the form of the thigh, was an admiration of its uniqueness, the way it captures the mind and lifts the soul beyond the realm of ordinary living. What distinguishes humans from most other animals, discounting kangaroos and the like, if not our ability to stand upright on our legs? The reason for this unique adaptation was nothing other than the thigh. The human ability to hunt, to run long distances, it was all a product of the thigh. Without it, humanity would be but a shadow of the species it is today.
And It's not just about the form of the thigh either; it's about what it represents, what it's able to express. We are all born with a soul; something that makes us human. No matter the emotional state, no matter what one is going through, their soul will always shine through in one place more than any other. Not the face, not the eyes, not the arms, not the hands or the feet; it's the thighs, the true windows into one's soul. It is none other than the thighs.
"Man. I'm so right it almost hurts."
My desire to share this wealth of knowledge with the masses often led to mixed results. People either showed mild interest in my passion, nodded along, hoping I would soon stop, or outright called me a pervert and stormed off, hoping never to cross paths with me again.
After being fired from 13 jobs for essentially the same reason, I realized that openly talking about these things only led to ridicule and rejection from society. So, in an attempt to compromise, I continued my impassioned ramblings but avoided any direct or indirect mention of thighs.
Without this key piece of information, when I spoke to people about my now heavily veiled passion, they didn't respond with disgust or disinterest but with eager curiosity. "What was it that this man was so passionate about?" people would wonder, expecting it to be something noble, maybe even revolutionary: solving world hunger, single-handedly stopping global warming, leading a crusade to end the reapers, all of these possibilities ran through their minds.
In this way, I was like the reapers, an enigma; perhaps if I spoke to enough people, I could inspire a cult to speculate about me, too.
But this all started long before the reapers appeared and, by extension, before the synths.
My ability to inspire carried over to my romantic relationships, however, though I had a fair number of partners throughout my life, I often found myself disillusioned by them. Maybe it was just the society we lived in, but it seemed like they were always holding back, as if something was missing. This led for my only engagement with thighs to become the 2D kind. And the pinnacle of this obsession was found within Gacha games.
In fact, the sole reason I sought employment was to fund my Gacha habit. For every girl I unlocked, I wrote a university-level dissertation on her thighs, leaving no detail unexamined.
My name on all these sites stated my goal explicitly: "The Thigh." Short, sweet, simple, and to a certain group, terrifying.
Game developers across the nation dreaded the infamous "thigh thesis" appearing on their forums.
My posts often brought in swarms of trolls and genuine thigh connoisseurs alike, all parroting my critiques until the game developers were forced to make changes that often cost the company dearly, or they would decide to release DLCs early to quell the outcry.
However, the reaction of these developers to my thigh obsession was nothing compared to my parent's, at least that was the case before they joined the cult.
Whenever you hear about cults, there's always someone who says, "Even the brightest and most educated individuals can find themselves drawn into a cult," or something like that. But it's not until someone you know joins a cult that it really hits you. And when the world is falling apart, people you thought you knew can quickly become strangers.
The cult my parents joined was one of the larger ones, boasting about half a million members; roughly one percent of the world's current population. They climbed the ranks to become top level members, enjoying privileges that rivalled those of the founders.
However, it changed everything about them. It was almost as if they were no longer people but poorly made robots, doing whatever they were told, no matter what it was.
And the cult told them how to do everything.
What to eat, how long to sleep, what to do when they woke up, who to speak to, who to avoid, what to watch, how long to watch it. Hundreds upon hundreds of rules, and they followed them to a T.
It was almost sad.
Almost.
In a way, I could respect the passion they now had. They had previously ridiculed me for my own ambitions, and now look at them.
My passion, however, was aimed at achieving perfection, whereas theirs was aimed at dying.
They wanted to get reaped, as they believed that was the only way they would be able to enter their version of heaven. They had already done the hard part with all the rules, so now it was smooth sailing.
However, they sailed to their destination faster than they likely expected.
"Hey.
"If my parents really did die... does that mean they're somewhere here? In this world?
"Hmm, now I have two sets of parents to look for, what a busy baby I am."
I can still remember the notification I received on my phone; mum and dad had been mowed down by what was believed to be a reaper gun. The first of its kind, the report said.
The message was full of condolences; they even gave me a number to call if I felt distressed or distraught. How ironic, they sent me the number for my own company, a different division, mind you, but the same place where I worked.
I found myself chuckling at the fact. I found it funny, the message telling me my parents had been mowed down was sitting before me, and I was laughing at it.
A wave of guilt washed over me, but it felt insincere, like I was putting on a play and apologizing for messing up my lines. But who was I apologizing to, and for what?
The notification was swiftly followed by another.
It was the bank. Upon seeing the second message, what could only be tears of joy began to roll down my cheeks, as if previously held back by an impenetrable dam.
Little did I know, being that high up in the cult meant you got the same monetary benefits as the cult leaders. And since my parents weren't around anymore to spend it, it all went to me as their next of kin.
The deposit came with a message, normal cult jargon, telling me I'd have to follow in my parents' footsteps, inviting me to some seminar or sermon.
Fat chance.
Then again, maybe I should go, just to show them how many Gacha girls their money was going to get me. Maybe I should write my next thigh thesis in their honour. I could call it a sponsored post or something like that. But people would probably think I was biased, so no, that's not the play.
With all of this money, I could pull more than ever before.
But I felt no joy.
It wasn't that I was sad or grieving; I was just ambivalent. My passion was dulled somehow. But I didn't let that deter me. Whether through passion or routine, I would continue on.
Then, as if answering my unspoken prayers, my ambivalence vanished, replaced by childlike excitement.
That was the day the synths arrived.
The idea of not only writing about thighs but being able to customize and craft the perfect pair was the answer to my long-held dreams. But to create the perfect synth, I would need more than just the perfect thighs. I was going to need some backup.