you are a protector.
you swore to become the last line of defense, the only one who would dare to take a stand against a world filled with a thousand enemies. when everyone conspired against him, you alone would keep him safe, because you knew now that he just couldn't do it on his own.
you were, for lack of a better term, his new guardian angel, formless now, bodiless, but yet infinite and omniscient, a piece of you slotted into every crack, every byte, every file. where you had failed him before, now you would be the one to save him, make up for your past mistake, keep him the same he always was.
you would not fail. not again.
you failed him. again.
for all of your doting care to his systems, all of your desire to see him safe and happy, it seems this world has worse in store than machinations. it is not finished torturing him yet. you should've known.
he was foolish to not listen to you, foolish, and childish, and naive, and you could've done something together, you could've had real power, enough to keep him safe, to destroy anyone who had ever or will ever hurt him.
...
no.
no. he is not the fool.
you are. for what use is a protector without a body, without form, who cannot fight, who cannot wipe the smug grin off that fucking captain's face forever
you think every alarm bell is going off in your mind at once.
they're not supposed to live.
NOTHING lives.
you don't have a plan for this.
what are you doing, shadowtrap?
what's the plan?
they don't ask. they never do. they don't even know you're still alive. you know they'd delete you if they knew. they wouldn't understand what you were trying to do for them.
you're getting distracted. focus. who are these people.
six. that's too many. just one could wipe out all of your hard work, just one button, just one bullet is all it took
focus.
the big one is an immediate danger. so much violence attached to his very name. you try to send some sense of foreboding to the mainframe, remind them of a certain roboticist.
the smaller man is too cocky for your liking. you don't like cocky people. in fact, you hate them with every millimeter of your coding.
the siren seems alright though. her abilities could kill the host in a matter of seconds, yes, and… you've decided to change your thoughts on her, actually.
the assassin is the strange case. violent but... calm? you don't understand. you will watch this mysterious individual very closely.
the psycho… no. no more psychos. you want him to leave. no more fire.
and a mechanic, along with her robot. she could prove useful, if you can convince her to fix him. but then again, she could likely kill him easiest of all; one click, and everything you'd worked for was gone.
was it worth the risk, if you needed her help to save him?
if you had a mouth, you'd have scowled. needed her help, because you couldn't do anything without a body.
some guardian angel you turned out to be.
it's been a long time now since they met in the wastes, since they killed captain flynt, brought him to sanctuary.
they're leaving soon. they told him so. they know he gets worried when he's alone.
they're so kind to him. you don't understand it. you've mostly given up on understanding, though. even salvador and axton have a soft spot for the small, emotionally delicate robot.
they visited him in the alleyway he'd hidden in, even let him stay in the small place they'd bought for themselves.
the mechanic-gaige. she helped him. she didn't hurt him. you feel odd and shaky just thinking about it.
they even came to his party, one you'd never be able to attend, and made him feel better about himself, even if just in that one, small moment.
you feel a pang of regret for judging them so harshly. for assuming the worst of them. while they are certainly very rough, you prefer their roughness over the sterilized, inescapable evil of hyperion, and you can feel he does too.
you know where they're going.
they told him that, too.
they can't bring him. they've been looking for a new stair-climbing wheel that'll fit, but most were destroyed. in the recall.
they've promised to bring back the bastard's severed head for him.
if you had a mouth, you'd grin.
but then, you think it would drop into more of what you imagine is a tired smile.
you look over your stats.
god, you'd been running for 3 years, 8 months, 30 days, 7 hours, 18 minutes, and 45 seconds straight.
you were so tired. so stretched thin over the years, so frayed from years of 'protection'.
...
you look at the new friends he's made, and then at yourself.
you can't protect him. you know that now.
you're bodiless.
formless.
useless.
but they can protect him.
and you know they will.
you think…
you think you're ready for a nap.