Disclaimer: I thought I'd try something different while I take a break from my other fic. This is, to say the least, very different from what I usually write. I don't own Andromeda or any of the characters in it. It's slash, and very dark, I think. Therefore, obviously, I'm thinking "WTF?" when I think about where this came from.
When the steel kisses my wrist, I find that my heart is beating hard, as though it knows what I am about to do, and feels some sort of necessity to pulse harder, attempting to force emotion into my empty carcass. I am dead already. My body just needs to catch up.
I can't move my feet.
Almost effortlessly, the blade slides in, bringing with it a breath of chill winter before the blazing summer storm. My breath hitches as I pull it out, turning my arm over to find that I have pierced through to the other side. The sweet sight of my life seeping into the bed-sheets is, intoxicating. Alluring. What would Rommie say?
"This is a ridiculous and pointless activity."
Maybe. Her voice is too low, though. There's probably a problem with her vocal processor. Maybe I should try and fix it.
Sluggishly, my arm, the one clasping the blade, Tyr's blade, rises up, before collapsing back down. Too much energy required to get up, but maybe I can, play, before I fail.
Releasing the dagger, His dagger, I manage to roll myself onto my side, bringing my arms up slowly to my view.
The cut, such a silly, little thing, doesn't gush, doesn't spurt, like one would expect. My hand is covered, and I bring it up to my face, curious.
I can't move my fingers.
Delicately, my tongue darts out and tastes the crimson.
Who knew scarlet had a flavour? So metallic, so smooth. It is warm, though I grow cold.
Something crawls down my cheek, tickling the tiny hairs. My other hand comes up and my thumb touches it, coming away, glistening. Slowly, I slip it into my mouth, tasting the salt.
"Taste, such an overlooked sense," I whisper, my voice hoarse from earlier sobbing. Was it really only an hour ago that I locked myself in here?
I can't move my legs. They grow cold.
Probing the wound that would soon set me free, I slipped my thumb inside, pushing undamaged arteries and tendons aside, feeling the sting from the salt as it viciously forced feeling on me. Involuntarily, I hiss. Still, I press, and I push, my thumb wiggling between bones and into the incision in the muscle. I giggle slightly when my thumb pokes through on the other side, scarlet, not tan, like it belonged to some demon and not some scrawny little kludge.
Time slows to a crawl as I wait to bleed myself away, spread my soul onto the sheets and have it diluted with the cleaner they'll use. I wonder if Rev is right about the Divine. Will my soul go to it, instead of disappearing with my blood? Or will I just cease? No more Harper?
I look down, and find that my thumb is slowing the flow, so I move to pull it free, whining with the pain.
I can't move my arms. They grow weak.
"Figures," I murmur, frozen in place, unable to do anything to speed my voyage. "I can't do anything right. First Tyr, now this."
Breathing becomes tiresome, my lungs struggling against my desires.
What will Dylan do without an engineer? Probably hire someone else as soon as I'm gone.
My heart becomes frantic. I try to soothe it, try to tell it to relax. There is no point to resisting.
There never was.
What would Trance say? What would she do? My purple goddess, lost. Or maybe she wouldn't mourn me. She would know better.
I can't speak. My lips seal.
And Tyr?
No loss for him. The kludge is going away, disappearing, vanishing, gone. Just the way he wants me to. Just the way he told me to.
Well, my last big trip was my idea. His exact words were, "Get lost or something." I could be paraphrasing, though.
Maybe I wouldn't get lost, or maybe I would. Should I purposely get lost for him?
Beka, almost a sister to me, would she miss me? No, I'm just an engineer, dime-a-dozen. No doubt she thinks I'm a burden.
"Privacy lock disengaged," Andromeda's voice echoed throughout the room and probably in the hall too.
I didn't order it, so, what's going on?
The next little while is a blur of purple, Dylan and Tyr shouting at each other and Beka crying. Roughly, I'm moved around, whimpering as my thumb is forcibly removed from my wrist and padding placed on it. Nanobots crawl around inside of my arm, repairing the cut, and a replacement for my soul, the broken one I intended to leave on my sheets, it screamed into my veins, charging me, rejuvenating me, bringing me back. To somewhere I didn't want to be. A place where nobody wanted me.
I can feel myself, though I don't want to.
I can breathe, but I can't stand the air.
I can see, yet I don't want to watch.
I wake up, the lights dim, someone watching me. A brief glance shows me that it's Tyr. I turn my head away, willing him to get up and leave. Silently pleading for him to leave, because I don't want to deal with him.
He didn't want me, so why is he here?
"I am well aware of the fact that you are awake." Anger, frustration, even hatred I can understand. Not relief. Why couldn't I just die? He evokes such, feelings, emotions, things I don't want to feel. It makes me feel as though I have been raped, feelings forced upon me with violence, urgency. "You truly are an idiot, Harper. Do you not realize that you could have died?"
"That was the point," I whisper, throat dry and sore. It feels as though I've been crying, but my face doesn't feel wet. Still, I keep my face from him.
"What could possess you to even consider such an action? Please, let me know. There has to be some, logic, behind the mask that is Harper!"
"You didn't want me," I murmur, closing my eyes when he comes around to where my gaze was peacefully piercing the wall. I try to move my head back, to face away from him, but he grabs me with one big, chocolate hand, forcing me to look at him.
Unlike mine, his face is wet. He has been crying. Why would he?
"That is incorrect, Harper," he leaned his face very close to me. "I want you more than I want my pride to be restored. I need you more than food and drink. Listening to you chatter is more glorious than any battle, and watching you work is more fulfilling than a well-earned victory. You, however, cannot tear your eyes from your work to see me. You will not stop thinking about making things or fixing things. You don't need me as much as I need you. Until you do, we cannot be with each other. I will not come second to anything, much less a machine!" He stood up straight and walked toward the exit. "Until you do, I can't love you."
There are no words for how I feel when he speaks those words. One tear slithers down my cheek, and I turn away, free to do so. Anger, love, fear, all are consumed by an overwhelming emptiness, a depression which crushes my soul into nothing.
Now I am nothing, gloriously so.
