Work Text:
They feel it before they ever see, hear, understand it.
Something integral within their metal heart clicks. Some unknown cog powering their artificial soul skips out of place, before resuming its work. The metaphor wasn't perfect- but frankly, Manual was never the best with such language. The literal was always more effective in their line of work- accurate accounts for everything, no matter what. Strip away the edifice, to reveal the core- provide detailed logistics about ever major planar event that was a result of extraplanar interference, to track trends, culprits, motivations. Find the sources behind the Battle for Zendikar, behind the Travails, the 'War of the Spark'; and no matter what, attempt to not interfere... unless, of course, they were FORCED to interfere. An army of spark-hunting undead would do that, after all. But this was their calling, what they were built for- their literal first nature, even if their people had built themselves beyond such a simple original task. Observation- a calling hard-coded into their being, even despite their 'jack-of-all-trades' design. Unlike so many other planeswalkers- even among the few with artificial origins- Manual could truly claim that they were built for this.
...They were avoiding the topic.
They can feel it, the moment that New Phyrexia is removed from the multiverse. It's not so much an actual sensation, something quantifiable, as it is merely... a feeling of loss, perhaps? Something missing, that was once there- that you never noticed, because you ALWAYS had it. Even when New Phyrexia had completely overtaken their home, Manual still felt- in some distant link, in some unknown mechanism- a perpetual tug in the direction of Mirrodin.
And as soon as Manual felt that- felt the absence- it suddenly returned. Askew, mismatched, but... there. A direction to follow. A path leading to whatever had taken its place, for better or for worse.
The last of the Phyrexian Forces fell quickly, their forms going slack as they were swiftly overrun. The resonant signal carried through the glistening oil had cut- and now, there was only the natural din of the plane. Cheers from the survivors of the onslaught. A world saved- even if not all of its people had been. Manual, however, had to go and see- had to find what had filled the void. Once they had de-summoned their forces, they proceeded to follow the pull- travel that infinite impossible path. The Myr stepped forwards, upwards, sideways-
They heard the drums even before they arrived. Resonant, rhythmic. They filled the silence left by the signal's disappearance, and as Manual's optics adjusted, they looked around to see... a plane that had been waiting for so long.
The five suns shine down upon the firmament, but the landscape, the city- they are new to Manual. Records pointed to an off-branch of Dominarian design- possibly Jamuraan in origin, but... wait. No. Manual cycled back, repeated their thoughts once, twice. Jamuraa. Jamuraa. And this new plane had simply... shown up exactly where New Phyrexia had been. Replaced it, while casting New Phyrexia into the void.
...Manual had never once believed they would see Zhalfir. And now, here they stood within the crowds of people- watching Mirrans learn the nature of their new home. Learn new skills. Attempt to learn how to live a life beyond constant warfare and survival. And Zhalfir... it welcomed them.
This was not home. Manual's home was long gone, destroyed by the unrelenting force of Phyrexia.
But the people were here, alive. The suns shone down upon the firmament. Nothing kept them here. Nothing forced them to leave.
New Phyrexia's oppressive atmosphere was gone, replaced by the impossible reality of this long-lost continent.
...Manual looked around once more, and began to walk through the crowds- seeking a local tailor, so as to update their garb. They watched a few other Myr converse between themselves before beginning to wander, undoubtedly looking for work.
It was home enough.