Author's Notes: I was up last night and unable to sleep, so I started to listen to the 9 Soundtrack, "Burial" by Danny Elfman in particular. Well, while I was listening to it the idea for this story came into my head and since I couldn't sleep I figured "Why not?" So yeah, you can partially blame Danny Elfman for this story.

Basically, it's how I wish 8's death in the film could be handled, and YES I am making a reference to my all-time favorite crack ship (8x3 FTW!) because I can and because it's awesome. Incidentally it's based on a theory I have about the relationship between 1 and 8.

Who Will Guard Us Now?

No. God please no.

He's lying there in the middle of the floor. Why isn't he getting up or moving?

I'm running now. My feet are two boards but that doesn't matter. One thought keeps running through my head like a skipping record. I'll kill them kill them kill them kill them Kill them killthemkillthemkillthem-

I skid to a stop on my knees beside him. His face is turned away from me. I can see the '8' clearly marked on his shoulder. I know I need to touch him, to turn him over to see his face, to see if it was true, but I am afraid to. I am afraid of what I might discover, that I won't be able to deny it.

God, please don't take him from me.

I hear Nine stopping behind me, and the light is casting strange shadows over everything. His barking words of "Stand back! Please!" sound like some alien language. They are coming from a million miles away.

Wake up Eight. Wake up, I'm here.

I can't stand it anymore. I reach out my hand, my throat closing in on itself. I am afraid. The tips of my fingers rest against his shoulder, against his name. He is cold. The urge to vomit is triggered.

No. He can't be dead. He can't—

I grab on and turn him over, swiftly. His head shifts upwards, staring at the ceiling with sightless eyes. His mouth is slightly ajar. A deadly silence fills the room, seeps in through the cracks in the concrete walls, huddles in corners and peeps out behind bits of machinery. It wraps around me and squeezes me until I can no longer breathe.

Who protects the Protector?

My hand is still on his shoulder.

A sound, similar to a groaning and a howl. It is coming from me.

Wake up Eight, oh wake up my son don't you know how much we love you please wake up, God please I need you I need you I need you Eight Goddamn it I love you son wake up wake up WAKE UP!

They are weeping around me now, crying and wailing. They know the truth. They accept it. So why am I still shaking his shoulder?

Wake up. Get up son, get up.

It is not until now that I realize that I have said the last words out loud. A million questions fill my head.

Did they hurt you? Did they break you before they stole you away? Were you scared? Did it hurt? Was it quick? Did you die alone? And finally, did you think of us?

There is a hand on my shoulder, a child's hand. I look up. One of the twins. Three.

You loved him too…

She is crying softly. She kneels down beside me and gently take's Eight's limp hand.

I need a hug.

Who did this to you? You were so full of life! Who'd want to take it away, and why? Why you, and not me?

I place my hand on top of Three's and wrap my arm around her skinny shoulders. She slumps into me, sobbing silently.

God, help the ones he left behind. If I ever see the machines again, there had better be somebody to hold me back. They will burn for what they did.

She writes in the dirt. Her writing hand is shaky and she's clutching Eight's hand like it is her lifeline.

I read the question and break down.

Who will guard us now?