The first emotion Robbie experiences after he stops his interval is fear. Fear that he hasn't done the right thing. Fear that the Resistance will not win the war. Fear that he will be discovered by the Tetragrammaton. Fear that John will be the cleric to discover him.
And, god. John. No, not John.
Dad.
It's a foreign thought. Libria taught its children the concept of a biological mother and a biological father. The government allowed small doses of emotion regarding the mother figure at certain times. For crying at his mother's funeral, Robbie had only been fined. But to even think about regarding one's biological father anything more than a source of room and board is punishable by death, at all times.
Father is the beloved father of all.
Except he's not, and this is the second emotion Robbie feels as he stares at his reflection in the mirror hanging above their bathroom sink. He can't quite put a name to it, but it's what he feels when he sees John (Dad, he corrects himself) in the downward turn of his own lips. His stomach flips, maybe his heart skips a beat, and the feeling is entirely uncomfortable.
"Dad," Robbie speaks experimentally. The word, one he's never uttered or heard but instinctively knows how to form it, feels right. He says it again, and again, and then, "John," which just doesn't sound right anymore.
John is Dad and he loves Dad. Dad is beloved and loved, not the face that appears on every screen across Libria to call itself Father.
The feeling is flipped on its head, turned straight into hate when the thought of that face filters into his mind. Hate so strong and overwhelming that Robbie has to grip the sink with both hands. Every line of that visage is etched into his memory and recalling it so suddenly brings a wave of bile into his throat.
It's not a pleasant emotion, hate. Robbie doesn't like it.
He doesn't like fear, either, or most of the things he feels washing over him in the following hours. Jealousy, that Lisa is handling this so much better than he is. Sadness, that he can't share this with anybody. Grief. Anxiety. The sum of it all is nearly enough to kill Robbie with regret.
But he also feels hope, that perhaps the Resistance stands a chance in this war. Exhilaration, that he can appreciate the gleam of light bouncing off of the sink. Thankfulness, that he's been given the chance to see a modicum of truth in all the lies of Libria.
Robbie doesn't know if it's a fair trade, all the pain for those moments of joy. He stands in front of the mirror for hours, thinks, and keeps on not knowing. Uncertainty, he realizes, is one of the good feelings.
"John is going to be home in ten minutes," a small voice announces from behind him. Lisa isn't there when he turns around, but he knows just from the sound of her voice that she's completely together and entirely certain about how to handle her new ability to feel. He's not nearly as certain and he's falling to pieces, but Dad can't find out about any of this.
Or Robbie will be executed by his own father's hand.
He wipes the tears he didn't even know he'd cried away from his face, straightens his collar which he'd rustled from perfection in a particularly strong fit of frustration, and places himself in front of the television that's broadcasting one of the Father's speeches. When Dad (John, he corrects himself) comes home, Robbie has balanced himself.
"John. I saw Adam Landon crying in class today. Should I report him?"
When John says unquestionably, he means it and believes it completely. Robbie dreams of the day his father utters that answer with uncertainty.