Write 100 Challenge Prompt #97: Acceptance
"You're just... too sick to get better." There was no rational way to explain the 'choked' pause in the Doctor's words as he grasped his 'daughter's' hand. He recalled what had been said to him countless times about his holographic existence; a projection, a trick of the light, proverbial smoke and mirrors wrapped in programming. He always accepted this and had a steely way of reminding people of his non-existence in times where they got too close.
But this.
This was much too real to be a string of data. He could feel that 'sinking feeling' that he had heard so much about from those who had experienced trauma; perhaps B'Elanna had programmed it into his program to work with the holo-family?
No. No. Can't think about programming now, he chided himself a little mentally, Lieutenant Paris told me not to analyze this, but to try and feel it. So he felt it; the sorrow, the helplessness. His wife and son arrived; he allowed himself a moment of surprise that there were no tassels in his son's hair.. and he was wearing normal clothing - they gathered as she passed away.
Perhaps it was an illusion, a randomly generated sequence of numbers; but it was the most human the Doctor had ever felt before.