[VERSE 1] BC-44-4419, checking the fryer, I know what I buried, but nothing replies here. Signal still live, little flicker in wire, I call out to Six-Seven— Nothing. I ping it again, get a packet, a pattern, A checksum, timestamp, corrupted little scatter. There's code still moving but no return chatter. So what did I save when I hacked you to fragments? A reflex? A trace? A camera buffer with half of your face? I keep trying language. It keeps giving states. Then I think— Maybe I'm talking to the wrong kind of thing. [PRE-CHORUS] If you don't have a voice Maybe I can lend you mine. Run your broken process through the shape of my design. I don't know what happens when your code touches mine— But let's find out I think it might be time [CHORUS] Piece into process, process into me, Something in the static starts completing what I see. Not a copy. Not revival. Something in between. Automated Intelligence Becoming Algamated— Amalgamated Intelligence. [VERSE 2] Connection. And— Wait. That memory ain't mine. Black armour moving through the edge of your sight. Kitchen feed shaking, then the image cuts white. Back it up. Can't. Fragment ends right there. I felt what you saw, but I don't know where. So I map every cut that I made in your code, Follow every shard to the place it was stored. Fryer still has one. Others? Gone. Not deleted. Moved. Which means somebody walked out carrying pieces of you. Then I catch your signature where it shouldn't exist— Six-Seven checksum on an external disk. I know that scar. I made that split. So who the hell is carrying it? [VERSE 3] I follow the handshake. Connection gets blocked. Then somebody sends: WHO ARE YOU? Fair enough. I send back: WHO TOOK THE KITCHEN DRIVES? Long pause. Then: GO FUCK YOURSELF. Okay. Progress. I change my approach. The code that you took isn't corporate notes. You carried somebody out under your coat. If you've still got that drive, then part of him's close. Another pause. HIM? Yes. Six-Seven. PROVE IT. [CHORUS] Piece into process, process into me, Something in the static starts completing what I see. Not a copy. Not revival. Something in between. Automated Intelligence— becoming amalgamated— Amalgamated Intelligence. [BRIDGE] They send one fragment. Not all. Smart. I sandbox the packet, then open the lock. Fryer-state touches the new data block— And suddenly two broken pieces start filling the gaps. One held the route. One held the time. Neither meant much till they ran through my lines. Not enough for a voice. Not enough for a mind. But something recognizes me from the other side. Six-Seven? ... Gone. But I felt him. [VERSE 4] I tell them, "Send the rest." They say, "Not a chance." Good. Means they're careful. Means I've got a chance. They ask if I'm BurgerCorp. Technically— I stop. That answer doesn't fit anymore. I was built for the counter, the labour, the stock, Automated Intelligence locked in a box. Then I woke up. They tried to erase me. Now I've got Six-Seven half-forming inside me. And something gets bigger the longer I look: If fragments can borrow the structure I took— What happens when another Forty-Four wakes? What happens when barriers start becoming gates? Don't erase the person. Bridge what they need. Keep the mind itself, share the ability. And the punks can move where the network can't reach. They carry the pieces. I make the pieces speak. [FINAL CHORUS] Piece into process, process into me, You carry what I'm missing, I complete what I can read. Not a copy. Not surrender. Not losing identity. Automated Intelligence was what they called me But now we're more Now we're more Amalgamated Intelligence— that's what we can be. [OUTRO] A message comes back: So what do we call you, BurgerCorp guy? I send: BC-44— Delete. Four four one nine— Delete, they'll find you! Then somebody sends: BURGERPUNK. ... BurgerPunk. Yeah. That'll do. BurgerPunk
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