And the story progresses…

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Anne was in the middle of running her last diagnostic when Mark burst in the door. She barely had enough time to jump before he had lifted her from her chair and slammed her into the wall to the left of her desk.

"Um, ow," said Anne, reaching down to massage her thigh where it had gotten caught on the chair.

"What did you do to me?" he demanded in a growl.

"I fixed your leg," she said calmly, meeting his eyes levelly. "I know you've figured that out by now."

"Why the hell did you do that? Why now? Why me?"

"Because I could. Because you already know I can do things normal people can't. Because I've felt guilty for years. But mostly, because I could, and because you needed me to."

"I don't need anything from some freak like you."

"Fine. You didn't need me to," she agreed easily.

"Don't mock me!" he said, pushing her more firmly against the wall.

She rolled her eyes. "Then what do you want me to say?"

"I want the truth. I think I deserve the truth."

She looked him in the eyes again. "Truth? Fine. Because you're my friend."

"I am not your friend." He let go of her arms, and she fell a couple inches to the ground.

"Great. I'm not your friend. But that doesn't stop you from being mine."

"I hate you," he pronounced, looking like he wanted to hit her. His hands were clenching into fists and unclenching, but he somehow managed to keep from pummeling her.

Anne grimaced as she realized that her arms were going to bruise. "That's nice," she said absently, concentrating on healing the damage.

"Is that all you're going to say?"

"I'm not going to lie to you, Mark. I'm not going to say that I hate you, because I don't. I understand you, I know where you're coming from, I comprehend your motivations. I can't say that I agree with you, but I'm not so shallow that I'm going to stop being someone's friend just because I don't entirely agree with them."

"You've lied to me for years. I liked you. My aunt liked you, the girls liked you, Effie liked you, we all liked you. We all thought that you were someone that was kind, and good, and a decent human being. Instead, you're a lying, evil freak. You act like I'm not supposed to have a problem with this."

She sighed and pushed past him to look at how her diagnostic was progressing, then picked up her chair and sat down. "You know me pretty well. Do you think that I'm really all that evil?"

"You killed my cousin," he pointed out.

"Who was trying to kill me. Who was trying to hurt someone under my protection. Who was the aggressor in that situation. Who I didn't even try to kill; it was an accident. I was aiming for his shoulder," she said with a slight frown, remembering just why she missed.

"And that is supposed to make it all better? How many tears do you think my aunt cried when I told her who you really were? How betrayed do you think the girls felt, when she told them that you were the one who killed their daddy?"

Anne sighed. "I know. I shouldn't have let myself be their friend. I shouldn't, and I knew that when the truth came out that they would be hurt. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to stay away, to not be their friend. I love them, too, you know."

"Love?" he said with a snort. "Your kind know nothing of love. You're just a biomechanical machine, a cog missing from a wheel. You belong inside a bulb, or buried under the sands."

"Thanks. Thanks for believing in me that much." She sighed and put her head in her hands. "You have no idea what it means to me, to have such friends. And, just for the record, I've never been inside a bulb." She paused. "And I do know how to love, you moronic asshole," she said without heat. "I love you, I love Effie, and I love your aunt and the girls. I love this planet, I love my job, and I would love to know just why you think I'm incapable of love."

"You are a plant. A thing. A machine. That you walk the planet makes you a freak. But you are not a thing that can know feelings."

She snorted at that. "Not know feelings? Mark, I'm an empath. Do you have any idea what that means?"

He narrowed his eyes, but shook his head a little.

"It means that every day, every hour, every second, I am constantly bombarded by the feelings of others, in addition to having to keep a very tight rein on my own. Saying that I don't know feelings is like telling a sailor that he doesn't know water."

"A what?"

"Um. Bad analogy. It's like telling a jockey that he doesn't know thomases. Like telling a mason that he doesn't know stone. Like telling a machinist that he doesn't know steel. Like telling a banker that he doesn't know money. Like telling…"

"I get the picture," he interrupted. "What am I feeling now?" he quizzed.

She took her face out of her hands and looked him in the eye again. "Fear. Anger. A bit of curiosity. Betrayal. Hate. Disgust."

"Easy enough to guess those."

"Conflicted. Sadness. Joy. And guilt."

"Joy? What joy?"

"You're glad that your limp is gone, whatever the reason. And you feel guilty that you're glad it's gone when it was healed by one of those plants that you abhor so much."

"You could still be guessing."

"I don't need to."

He looked at the wall over her shoulder. "Well, nice as this chat has been," he said sarcastically, "I came down here for another reason entirely. The boss wants to see you in his office."

She looked again at the progress of her diagnostic, then replied, "Let me just run these figures to Janet, then we can go."