3 (are)
She is dead.
She is dead, they're hissing, inside his head. We are all you have left. We are all you have. We are all.
"You are," he murmurs, one of them slipping gracefully past his cheek to rifle through the reams and reams of notes and schematics he's rewritten from memory. "You are all, you are."
He finds it easier to let them do the thinking, now: them, the new, the better pieces of himself, the actuators, the tentacles.
"We are all you are," they tell him, and this gives him pause.
"You are me," he mutters. "And I am you, and we are each other, but –" he is tired, exhausted, and almost gives up trying to say what he means, but the right words eventually occur to him: "But I was here before you, and you are not all I am."
She is dead, they say again, reading his mind. And that's what they were built for, after all.