Look who's back.
This is thematically similar to Execution Warrants - short, introspective, inflicting pain onto characters I like, all that good jazz. With that said, fic-ward, ho!
Another sunrise, that great golden sphere painting the sky with soft-hued streaks once again. Another morning, the air already sultry and stifling, barely a breath of air to be found anywhere.
Another day.
And that, according to her calculations, made it the 2293rd time she'd woken to this mob-infested, machine-dominated, mind-controlled circle of Hell.
She'd long since stopped burying her face into the pillow and clinging to her bed with her eyes stubbornly closed, refusing to face the grim reality she'd created without ever meaning to. Restful nights, peaceful days and the comfort of denial were luxuries not meant for people like her.
Somebody capable of something like this, no matter how sorry she was, no matter how hard she tried and how far she'd go to fix it, must be a monster. Deserving of nothing but the same suffering she'd inflicted upon the innocent. But then what would stand between the perpetrator of said suffering and the millions upon millions of unsuspecting people living happily in their respective worlds, free to think and talk and act any way they wanted? She couldn't take that away from anyone else.
She'd considered building an Exit Portal and seeking some sort of help, but the machine would just send an army of puppets (no, people, people, with no control over what they did…not since she'd ruined everything, anyway) through it the second it was finished.
Theoretically speaking, she knew how to bring the machine down. She'd built the accursed thing, after all. But the only way to do so was dangerous and right up close and, though she hated herself for it, she wasn't prepared for that kind of risk.
Its voice haunted all her worst days and all her most terrifying nightmares. Caused chills to cut through her, leaving what felt like icy acid in her stomach and mouth. Taunted her that she was never safe, always stuck in this sick game of cat-and-mouse. If it caught her, if that voice forced its way into her brain to stay for the rest of her life…her blood curdled at the thought.
Her one strand of hope, so fragile that she hardly dared to think about it in case it snapped (she'd heard that hope was the most powerful of emotions and it was easy to see why when it was all that kept her going these days), was that somebody fast and brave and capable would find the Portal Network, stumble into this wasteland she called her home and be able and willing to offer their help. She was only too aware that she didn't deserve help, not like the others did, but she was also painfully aware that they all needed it. Desperately.
Because she was so tired. Tired of being wracked with guilt. Tired of the unique pain of seeing her friends, so good and intelligent, being used as little more than slaves. Tired of running. Tired of being alone, trapped, afraid.
When would she not have to be afraid anymore?
Soon. Just hold on a little longer.
And that, according to her calculations, was the 2293rd time she'd told herself that.
(was this story really this short back in the day? Huh)
2293 days is approximately 6.2 years. Since I don't think we're told how much time passed from PAMA going rogue 'til the events of Episode 7, since I suspect it to be a good few years and since this is set maybe a couple months before Jesse and Co. came along...that's what I went with. Once again, a very logical and scientific conclusion from me ;-;
Hope you guys enjoyed!
(*awkwardly tips hat on my way to form a Give Harper A Goddamn Hug queue*)
~ Rainy