From edge of the cliffside, he gazes into the nothingness below him, the sunrise a beautiful picture before him. Reds, oranges, yellows intertwine and fill the sky, the coexisting colours of a dying sun whose final breaths paint him as a dark silhouette against the burning skyline. Day bleeds out into night and the moon hangs in the sky, alone. He wishes that the stars might appear now, but emptiness stretches infinitely into the night.
He rests his rifle on his shoulder, watches as the last blaze of the invisible sun slowly falls out of sight beyond the edge of the horizon. A quiet voice seeps through the silence of the newborn dark.
"I can almost see the colours. I wish…" She trails off, gazes forward with a slight tilt of the head and a slight 'oh' forming upon the curves of her lips in a perfect picture of wistfulness.
"You're daydreaming, Cortana."
"I'm not daydreaming."
"Right," he scoffs. "You can't be daydreaming."
A shrug, perfectly imperceptible, and a downcast of eyes so slight he almost misses it.
"I'm sorry." Moments like these, he always forgets. He shouldn't have to apologize, but— well— it's just...she seems so real, sometimes, even if she shouldn't. She shoots him a glare, sharper and more biting than any weapon could ever hope to be.
"You're not," she almost seems to spit. "You— how was it that you put it? You 'can't be.'" Her mouth twists into a sarcastic smile.
"I can. I am."
"Bullshit."
Pause.
"I'm sorry," she whispers.
"I know."
Everything's even now— she shouldn't have to apologize to him either. She did, anyway, maybe because he did, maybe because she was, maybe because it matters, for them. And things go back to normal, after that.
Not too subtle, was it?