Better, Back Together

Impossible.

Her fingers hooked around the glass. It was impossible.

Her eyes blurred. There was nothing, nothing around her except for this, for him. Somewhere far away, there were sirens wailing, and a dim voice she barely registered that said something about a total lockdown. From somewhere between that distant place and here, there was a dull clang as a heavy door slid shut. But all that existed right here in her present were the console against her back, the glass under her fingers, and him.

Him.

"You look...er...well, not going to lie, you look pretty terrible. You should probably sit down or something. And rest, resting is a good thing. Absolutely the best thing you could be doing right now. Seriously, just sit right back down, right there. It's probably nice and cold. Very comfortable."

It was like nothing had changed.

How could he talk to her like nothing had changed?

Her shoulders shook. She stared at him through the glass, words dying in her throat, as they had always done, and probably always would. How could he? After all this time, after everything he had done, how could he?

How could he hurt her like this?

How could he have hurt her like that?

"Er, okay, you're starting to look worse now. You should really, you know, lay down for a bit. You look pale. Paler than most humans. Not that pale humans look bad, but you're not supposed to be that pale, right? Not that you've got much reason to believe me or— What are you doing?"

She straightened, pushing herself back against the console. She reached into the purse slung haphazardly across her shoulders and pulled out her datapad. He was watching her, his optic wide in confusion, and god help her, all she wanted to do was rip it out, because he should know, he should know what he had done, how could he act so innocent, like he cared, with what he had done?

She raised the datapad over her head with both hands, and brought it down with all her strength on the top of the cylinder.

He cried out in fear as the glass cracked, a circular pattern exploding outward like a spider's web. She clenched her teeth, baring them in a manic grin as she lifted the datapad and brought it down again. And again. And again.

CRASH!

The top caved in, but she didn't stop there. He was babbling now, his optic constricted into a tight, terrified blue dot, but she wasn't actually listening. His voice was just another sound in the background that didn't quite exist in her present. All she could hear was the crackle and crash of glass as she swung the datapad down over and over again, bashing at the top and sides of the cylinder until it was nothing more than shards. And then—only then—did she let it fall from her aching, stinging hands, reaching past the devastation to rest her hands against his shuddering mainframe.

He was warm.

"Have you gone mad? No no no put me down put me down!" His voice had jumped several octaves. Her head tilted a little to the side, but that was the only sign she gave that she had even registered his words, because she completely ignored his distress, lifting him off the pedestal. He was shaking like a leaf in a strong wind, turning, struggling weakly, a little heavier than she had originally thought, but that was okay, and what was that red smear across his plating?

Oh. She'd cut her hands on the glass. Oh well.

"Look, you should really sit down—well, no, there's glass all over the floor, you'll hurt yourself, we don't want that—maybe move over to the wall or something—wait no don't no no no OWW!"

She held him out at arm's length and dropped him. Slivers of glass scattered like water droplets as he hit the floor with a satisfying clunk. He rolled a few feet, stunned into temporary silence, and she moved after him, the glass crunching beneath the soles of her shoes. She sort of liked that sound. She almost wished she had been there to step all over the fifteen acres of glass that She had supposedly picked up all by her lonesome. That would have been funny.

He cringed away, but she picked him up again. "Okay, I deserved that," he gasped. "I did. I really did. That was my fault entirely. But I'm serious, you need to get out of here and get help. You're going to kill yourself if you don't. And killing you would be bad. Very, very bad—wait wait stop OWW!"

She dropped him again. That time it wasn't quite as satisfying. She was too busy wrestling back the low, hot fury that was rising up in her chest for it to feel satisfying. He certainly hadn't seemed to care very much about keeping her alive before. Why did he care now? Did he even care at all? Or was he just trying, as usual, to look out for himself?

He was whimpering softly when she picked him up the third time. Her lips were twisted in a silent snarl, and he shuddered violently, struggling against her grip. "Let me explain, I can explain! Please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, just let me explain, that's all I want to do, just—"

She dropped him again. And this time, he screamed.

The scream stopped her cold. There was real pain in it. Utter terror. And the sound of something breaking.

She dove after him, blind panic flooding through her. Something was wrong. Something inside him had snapped, she had heard it, and there were sparks shooting out from between the cracks in his plating, he was still screaming, and she hit the ground with glass cutting into her knees and elbows and sparks burning her arms, but there was no pain, only crushing dread as she pulled him into her arms, begging to god or whoever else was out there that she hadn't killed him, that he would be okay, that he—

He let out short, ragged, whimpering gasps, shivering like a child with fever. There was a crackling hiss of static behind his voice. There were no more words. He simply stared at her, his optic constricted to a tiny blue dot, a soft noise escaping him that could only have been a quiet, terrified sob.

He was afraid.

She had hurt him. And he was afraid.

What had she done?

He wasn't fighting any more. She curled into a fetal position, drawing him close to her chest. What had she done to him? God help her, what had she done?

Was this what had happened to him?

He had been weak. And then suddenly, he had been strong. Suddenly, he'd had power like nothing he had ever known before. And suddenly, the person who had insulted him, hurt him, almost killed him, was entirely at his mercy.

"I'm sorry..." She could barely hear his words over the hissing static. "I'm sorry...so sorry..."

She pressed her cheek against his frame. Some small, disconnected part of her noticed it was wet. The rest of her was twisting around itself with guilt and despair. She understood now. It still wasn't right, what he had done, what she had done, but she understood.

Her chest hurt.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. Her throat was tight, and the words caught, but she pushed them out anyway. "I...forgive you...please..."

There was no reply.

She held him tight against her chest, squeezing her eyes shut. Every fiber of her body shook like a leaf lost in a hurricane. He couldn't... No. Not now. Not when she finally knew. He had to be...he couldn't be...

"...please..." Her voice was faint. Tears streamed down her cheeks, dripping onto the metal, falling to the floor and scattering like shards of light. Why wasn't he moving any more? Why wouldn't he move, why wouldn't he answer her? What was wrong with him? What was wrong?

What had she done?

They had told him. The memory surfaced in a flash, and a sob tore from deep in her chest. They had been right all along, because they had told him, and he had told her, that if he ever, ever detached himself from his rail, he would...

It could have been minutes or days or seconds or hours before the blast door slid open and people poured in. She registered dimly the heavy footsteps, the loud, commanding voices calling to her, but she didn't react—not until a hand reached down to grip at hers. Then she snarled, snatching her wrist away and curling up into a ball. She wasn't going to move. Not for them. Not for anyone. And no one was going to take him away from her.

They had to carry her, kicking and struggling, out of the room. They didn't touch her hands or wrists again, not after she tried to bite one of them and someone in charge yelled at them. By the time she was outside and being shunted into some kind of vehicle, the world around her had descended into a dull blur once again. Nothing out there mattered to her. None of it was real. Nothing but the scrapes and burns on her arms, the dull, throbbing pain in her skull, and the white sphere clutched in her arms, smeared with dark soot and slick blood.

They told her that she needed to let go. They told her it belonged to the museum, that it wasn't hers. They told her it was dangerous to hold onto it. They told her that if she didn't, she would be in trouble. She could go to jail. She could make herself sick. She might die.

All sorts of people talked to her, telling her these things. The men in heavy vests and helmets who had carried her away. People in white coats and green aprons with their hair all bound back and masks over their faces. People in fancy suits with glasses and briefcases. People who came to visit her when she was alone in her new room (white and sterile—what had happened to her old room? Her old home? No one would tell her.), the ones who talked like her therapist, except none of them were, and she didn't trust any of them, so they kept sending her new ones.

Eventually they stopped telling her.

She never did let go.

It was a long time before they brought in the familiar therapist, the woman she trusted. She would have hugged her, if her arms hadn't been bound up and still hurt a lot (and if she hadn't been busy hugging something else). They talked for a long time. She explained what had happened, and by the time she got to the end she was crying again, and her therapist hugged her, and talked to her like a human being—none of the others had done that. Then she said something about something called 'schizophreniform disorder', and told her that what she had been through, what she had seen, she had to hold onto it, no matter what anyone else told her. Because it was real. It was as real to her as the bed she was sitting on, or the ceiling above her head. Maybe it wasn't real to anyone else, because they had been on the outside. But to her, in her mind, it was reality. She just had to remember that.

She would.

She would always remember.

And she would never let go.