A man, his skin pale, his hair and eyes dark, sits outside an abandoned warehouse on a pier. He is middle-aged, and slightly unhealthy-looking. His face is turned upwards toward the moon, and his every breath sends up a faint cloud of steam, as though he is offering up his very life. Faint shimmers are visible around him; he is guarded by four metallic actuators -- tentacles that twist this way and that, looking into the night sky.
He remembers another moon. He remembers her under that moonlight, and remembers her so vividly for a moment that it brings tears to his eyes. How beautiful she was; how mysterious and catlike under that light.
He shudders, drawing his coat tighter about him. There is so much lost to him now...
He almost weeps; but then, the actuators are there, in his mind, trying in their childish way to comfort him.
Please, do not be sad, Father, they murmur. We love you. We do not want you to be sad.
The rational, analytical part of his mind wonders; to what extent can these creations of his love?
Or are they trying to manipulate...?
Please, Father, how can you think such things? They press in close, clearly agitated by the awful, if half-formed, thought.
He takes the pincers as they swing near, stroking the actuators — his creations, his only children — in an effort to calm them. He doesn't know if it will have any effect on them; but they take it from his mind that the motions are intended to soothe, and they quiet beneath his tentative touch.
"Shh," he whispers finally, "let me think my human thoughts for a while."
The actuators curl around him, quiescent but protective. Did he really program them to be so...human?...or are they learning?
As alone as he is without her, at least he has his children.
And there is, of course, the reactor. Lovingly, he envisions it; sleek, shining, ready to pour forth its energy to illuminate millions.
It brings a smile to his lips; the first in days. Soon, soon, it will be a reality. Yes, he can all but taste it...
That thought wakens his sense of the ridiculous. "I might as well start yelling 'I'll get you next time,' or something," he mutters.
His mirth, however, is short-lived, and it only leaves him more alone than before.
Alone...and now the tiniest fraction of fear creeps insidiously into his heart; what if he fails again? What if the reactor goes critical? What...
What if he dies, like...like her...?
He shudders; but one of the pincers raises itself, speaking for all four of the actuators. Do not fear, Father. We will protect you. We will never allow anything to harm you.
He wonders, briefly, if that is a promise that can be kept.
The actuator chitters for a moment. We swear that we will protect you, Father. We will die for you...or with you if we fail.
Thus reassured, the man struggles to his feet and turns his back on the moonlight; aided, as ever, by the children his hands have created.