To be a soulless automaton is to be able to look your former lover in the eye while clutching her dream and throttling it to death. It's what he does. As Jesse St. James, debonair singer extraordinaire, he seduces rival female leads, tosses them by the wayside, and then claws his way to the top and comes out clutching the ridiculously huge trophy that they give out. At Nationals, which is where he's headed. (of course.) But he doesn't rub it in. Most of the time, anyways. Most of the time, he's kind, loving and leaving behind a tiny piece of himself for the girls to cling on to and reassure themselves that what they had was more than a quick fling and a battle strategy. Most of the time, he leaves them shattered enough so that they can't rebuild in time for the competition, but not broken enough so that they can never stand.

Most of the time, he doesn't fall in love.

Rachel Berry has never fallen into the category of "most of the time." No, she's a singularly extraordinary individual, the one girl who's had the gall to get herself back together and spit in his face by actually performing at Sectionals, and doing a damn fine job of it. His self-confidence is shaken. Is he losing his touch? No, by the way her face crumbles, he's not. He should be feeling on top of the world right now – he's just won (again) and is stealing away her dreams as she stands and breathes, not twenty feet away from him. But he's not.

No, as a matter of fact, he feels nothing of the sort. He almost feels… hollow, if you will, like the Tin Man's chest before the Wizard put the heart into it. And, well, between him and the rest of the musical world worth their salt – everyone knows that Vocal Adrenaline lacks heart. It's why they can't do a funk number, but are impeccably choreographed. He feels hollow in the worst sort of way, almost like the way that people are supposed to be before colonoscopies, and he feels like he wants to throw up.

(badump-badumpitty-bump-bump-bump.)

There's his heart again, beating an irregular tattoo. Seeing her reminds him of his own humanity, and the way that this victory doesn't really make him feel victorious. It's confusing. He knows he won – it says so on the trophy – but he feels like an entire world has been lost to him. Today, he has won plastic and metal, and lost worlds of warmth and what-could-have-been. He's not sure where the larger tragedy is. He's confused. But a small, mean voice in his ear makes him look back over at Rachel, who's still looking at him like a forlorn child, and though sympathy rises up to choke him, he pushes it back down his throat and pulls Miss Concoran into a fierce hug. She is his lifeline, the one tether to a ruthless counterpoint that he's had drilled in his head from a young age.

(five-six-seven-eight, badumpitty-bumpitty-bump-six-seven-eight—)

As Rachel Berry watches, Jesse St. James takes her dreams in his left hand, and hugs her mother with his right. He takes both of her dreams, and crushes them to his chest.