Alleluia
Prelude
----
She remembers when it is morning, filled with that symbiotic dusky light as night slowly gives to the scattering rays of morn, and his satisfied athlete's grin when she steps silently into the rec room. "Why are *you* so pleased?" she asks, sourly, pausing coldly behind the curve of the couch.
"Man," he all but roars with amused triumph, "I am the *champ*! Undefeated, on top, high score!" And he gestures with his large, glinting hand to the television, a silvery mess of masculine glory and exhausted victory as the game flickers the neon words of his meaningless, universal win.
"You are utterly absurd," she says in a cool tone, narrowing her dark eyes in disgust. She does not understand him, cannot understand the small complexities of his arrogance and simultaneous humility. "What purpose does all," she, in turn, gestures, as she speaks dryly, "this useless equipment have? It's space we'd be better off using for satellite communication or monitor systems."
He looks at her, the same frighteningly overwhelming grin that he had worn when she, reluctantly, suggested a celebration upon Robin's rescue. "You want the long or short version?" he asks, absently clicking his thumb over the button to save. "'Cause I got a million reasons why all of this is worth it.
"I mean, first off," and he swings his heavy, cybernetic arm over the back of the couch, face serious, "ya gotta think of what it is: electronics. It's complex, with wires and small pulses going through it that keep it going, like it's alive, y'know? You think it's worthless, but this stuff keeps you sane, sometimes, in little ways. Like life."
His hand twitches, soft, mechanical whirrs flickering through the rubber-coated veins of copper, and she looks at him, narrowly under the darkness of her hood. Something deeper in his words, but then he grins, all machismo and sheer pride at the strobing high score on the screen.
"Victory pancakes, on the house!" he smirks, and snaps his metal fingers at her, a ringing, cool sound.
"How thrilling," she replies, because there is nothing else to say.
-
If electronics live then so can they perish.
When she does not remember - when she is drawn back from an uncharacteristic moment of shock, and the kinetic wrong of confused emotion, to realize it is night - she sees the dull gleam along the silver that is his abdomen, his thighs, the bulky, graceful curve of his shoulder joint. The curves are bulbous and dim, and the cybernetic eye is flat, an unnatural black where it was meant to glow red.
She understands death.
----
end
----
notes:
Yes, it's meant to be ambiguous/confusing/irritating. And, yes, I know where I'm going with this.
Prelude
----
She remembers when it is morning, filled with that symbiotic dusky light as night slowly gives to the scattering rays of morn, and his satisfied athlete's grin when she steps silently into the rec room. "Why are *you* so pleased?" she asks, sourly, pausing coldly behind the curve of the couch.
"Man," he all but roars with amused triumph, "I am the *champ*! Undefeated, on top, high score!" And he gestures with his large, glinting hand to the television, a silvery mess of masculine glory and exhausted victory as the game flickers the neon words of his meaningless, universal win.
"You are utterly absurd," she says in a cool tone, narrowing her dark eyes in disgust. She does not understand him, cannot understand the small complexities of his arrogance and simultaneous humility. "What purpose does all," she, in turn, gestures, as she speaks dryly, "this useless equipment have? It's space we'd be better off using for satellite communication or monitor systems."
He looks at her, the same frighteningly overwhelming grin that he had worn when she, reluctantly, suggested a celebration upon Robin's rescue. "You want the long or short version?" he asks, absently clicking his thumb over the button to save. "'Cause I got a million reasons why all of this is worth it.
"I mean, first off," and he swings his heavy, cybernetic arm over the back of the couch, face serious, "ya gotta think of what it is: electronics. It's complex, with wires and small pulses going through it that keep it going, like it's alive, y'know? You think it's worthless, but this stuff keeps you sane, sometimes, in little ways. Like life."
His hand twitches, soft, mechanical whirrs flickering through the rubber-coated veins of copper, and she looks at him, narrowly under the darkness of her hood. Something deeper in his words, but then he grins, all machismo and sheer pride at the strobing high score on the screen.
"Victory pancakes, on the house!" he smirks, and snaps his metal fingers at her, a ringing, cool sound.
"How thrilling," she replies, because there is nothing else to say.
-
If electronics live then so can they perish.
When she does not remember - when she is drawn back from an uncharacteristic moment of shock, and the kinetic wrong of confused emotion, to realize it is night - she sees the dull gleam along the silver that is his abdomen, his thighs, the bulky, graceful curve of his shoulder joint. The curves are bulbous and dim, and the cybernetic eye is flat, an unnatural black where it was meant to glow red.
She understands death.
----
end
----
notes:
Yes, it's meant to be ambiguous/confusing/irritating. And, yes, I know where I'm going with this.