It was only because of Naigus' police badge that Marie suspected she wasn't in jail. It had saved her ass on multiple occasions, the most recent being at the bus stop. She was only allowed on after her close friend flashed her badge and stared down the bus driver, enabling Marie and the cyborg to scuttle by, the emotionless man's head bowed and turned away so there were fewer witnesses to what he looked like. After managing to stumble to the back of the near - empty bus and enduring less than casual glances from the driver, Marie had finally reached over and yanked on the cord that alerted that she was ready to get off at the next stop.

How she managed to run her way up to apartment number 654B was unknown to her. She didn't believe in any deities, but it seemed as though one of them must have believed in her, because she and the cyborg had somehow slipped past the deserted stairwell and took all six flights without encountering a neighbour.

She supposed most people were too cautious now-a-days to slip off after dark. The reports of vultures and police in full-blown riot-gear must have spooked most people, and for once, she was near-thankful of the fear mongering.

Only when she shut the door behind her, having ushering the cyborg in ahead of her, could she breathe easily, and she peeled off her jacket, setting it on the hook before she whirled around and found him standing in the middle of her living room.

Her apartment was nothing to scoff at, though it certainly wasn't impressive, by any means. She grasped the front of her shirt, carefully fanning herself with it since she nearly sweat through the material with the terror of what could happen if anything went wrong.

It was lucky. They were lucky.

Or, rather, she was lucky. He seemed like he'd seen better days. Luck was likely something he'd scoff at, had he the means.

Marie took in a deep breath.

"Home sweet home," she said nervously, swallowing when her voice warbled. She was a little tired from the six flights of stairs, her short legs having to keep up with his far longer stride, and he had taken, not two, but three steps at a time. He only turned to look at her, blankly, his eyes unblinking for a solid thirty seconds.

She nearly cringed. "Do you. . . want some water?"

"I do not require it to function."

She paused, looking at him, and something akin to tenderness must have come over her face because he turned away, as though unwilling to look at her.

"I know you don't need it. . . but do you want some?"

"I cannot want anything," he informed her, sounding every bit like a machine: some sort of recording. It seemed like a well-practiced phrase, something he had said multiple times in the past, and she felt something hot and angry in her bones toward whoever had him in their clutches before she found him.

She wanted to insist that he could, but when she looked at him, it seemed as though his shoulders tensed.

When she blinked, it was like she had imagined it, and she licked her lips, suddenly dry.

"If you don't want any water, that's okay," she insisted, deciding to let it drop. His throat must have been parched from being in the landfill and unconscious for so long, but one of the features of his programming was that, being only partially organic, he could survive without human needs. Still, to believe he couldn't want anything. . .

She had the distinct urge to comfort him in some way. If not through food or materials, through touch. But as her hand twitched by her side, she clenched her fingers into a fist.

There was no telling how he'd react to anything. She had to take things slow. They didn't know each other.

But she had dragged him through hellfire, her leg still burning from the wound she took from the holo-fence. He might not have known, might never know, but she cared.

And beyond which, she had a responsibility to him, now. She chose that, so she didn't get to make it about herself. If he hadn't even shaken her hand when she offered it, back at Azusa's house, she doubted he would appreciate a hand upon his shoulder just a few hours later. She breathed in through her nose, her eye drooping slightly as she observed his back.

"It's late. . . The couch pulls out, if that's okay by you? I'll go get you a pillow," she said, slipping by him to her bedroom, knowing that she hoarded frilly pillows and multiple sheets due to how often she redecorated. Her entire apartment was a happy shade of yellow, but she had gone through a pink phase only a few months prior, and the happy shade might do something to his mood.

She hoped.

When she walked back in, holding the massive bundle of bedding, he only looked at her. She offered up a thin, delicate smile when she set down the pile, moving her table to the side so he'd have a place to sleep.

He didn't help her.

And he said nothing.

Evidence File #23 for Case 3419

November 1st

No progress on the empathy project. Giriko chewed me out for almost falling against the table when I went to get the norepinephrine. Jackass. It feels like everything is slow and swimmy when I'm on the painkillers, but it's the only way to walk properly.

Finally managed to get in touch with Justin and figure out when he can make a meeting. Everyone else already cleared a day. It feels like it always takes Armageddon to have all of our schedules line up.

The cyborg is doing about as well as could be expected. Still not comfortable eating or drinking anything I offer. I keep leaving food, but it's always untouched. I'm getting worried that his organic components will be compromised.

I can't make out what batch he would have been from. He seems like he fits in better with older models, but his hardware was new, according to what Azusa sent me.

I think he'd flinch every time I walked into the room if he had the means. It hurts to know that.

Spirit's been scratching his head over all the info. Sent a group chat that he couldn't trace the parts. They're good for nothing but scrap, they were so damaged. Azusa's been using it as spare fuel for the generators.

Leg's throbbing something awful.

I wish I wasn't out of sick days. There's too much to be sick about.

It wasn't really an emergency. At least, that was what Spirit was grouching about, hands in his pockets as the group of them settled in his miniscule kitchen while Sid made them coffee. They could have waited, they didn't need to take action as though they were all going to die in a few hours if they didn't. At the very least, he grumbled, Maka was out at a friend's house.

What Spirit was trying to hide the girl from, Marie couldn't know. Maka had already forged a relationship stronger than steel with Crona, and any chance she got to visit the other teenager she took. Maka was already deep in the resistance movement, having developed a strong aversion to politics, and getting more than one detention for speaking out of turn. The girl was opinionated, strong.

She reminded her of Kami. She even wore the same hairstyle. Marie could tell that Maka despised the safe-houses just like Kami did, commenting more than once how they had the impression of the old-world prisons she observed in her textbooks, but she knew that her father and Marie and all of their friends did everything they could to ensure that the people housed in the safe-homes were comfortable. It was that same grudging acceptance that made Marie nostalgic for her close friend.

Marie supposed Spirit just wanted to shelter her, like he couldn't shelter his wife. She couldn't begrudge him that much.

He sighed, settling his weight against his kitchen island while Naigus and Marie sat on his table, only prompting the barest of eyebrow twitches from him. Azusa, among the most logical of them all, had gone the boring route and actually settled into a chair.

Like a normal person, she'd said, rolling her intelligent eyes to everyone else's half-hearted chuckles.

Sid finally came back with the last two mugs of coffee, handing one off to Justin before he settled next to the boy against the wall. After a single pause, in which everyone looked at one another, Justin let loose a cough as though to urge everyone on.

"So, the meeting is a go, hm?" Spirit snarked, sighing through his nose before he took a sip of his caffeine.

"Looks that way," Naigus replied, having already finished the last of her drink and leaning her elbows upon her knees. "Is this about that cyborg Marie took in?"

Marie flinched. "You talk about it as if I've adopted him," she muttered, averting her gaze.

No one replied to that much, and the quiet felt oppressive in such a small room. Marie looked around before she closed her eye, leaning backward. "Fine, whatever. Yes, it's about him."

"Got back from my sources. No one's reported a missing cyborg through any of the underground systems," Justin informed, blinking his bright blue eyes at Marie. The boy had such an unnerving, electric stare.

He could have been an interrogator in another life. Or an executioner. With a stare like that, it was no wonder he could pry information out of anything. When he didn't have his headphones lodged into his skull, that was.

"Nothing through the official routes either," Sid informed. "Any good tracking a serial or model number?"

"He doesn't have any," Azusa admitted, adjusting her glasses.

"Not even on any of his internal parts?" Marie asked, somewhat taken aback. Even if he didn't have the tattooed coding on some part of his body, he had to have a traceable number somewhere in him.

"Even his skeletal structure is intact," Azusa revealed, having had access to what of his metallic skull had been exposed.

"I couldn't find anything in my examinations either," Naigus added, tilting her head to the side. "What about in his actual coding?"

Azusa looked at Marie, the two of them sharing a sharp glance. It was clear that the younger woman expected the blonde to inform the room, and Marie blinked a few times before she put her cup to the side, avoiding everyone's gaze.

"About his coding. . . it's been compromised."

"As in hacked?" Sid asked, his mouth pinching.

"As in destroyed," Azusa provided. "Part of his coding was traumatized."

"How traumatized?" Naigus asked, her eyebrows coming together.

"Traumatized to the point where he lost his emotional center."

Spirit sucked in a gasp at that, the air suddenly becoming heavy. "Are you sure they were traumatized? Are you sure he just didn't have them to begin with?"

Azusa looked at him in annoyance, irritated at having her credibility questioned. "Of course I'm sure. Do you find me some sort of amateur-"

"But that means he had to have had emotions before being. . . traumatized. Experimentation on emotional cyborgs is illegal," Sid pointed out.

No one said anything for a good few seconds, taking in the information. Of all the mistreatment cyborgs had to go through, experimentation was one of the few things they had protection from. Even Baba Yaga wouldn't dare to mess around with experimenting on anything other than the emotionless. Their massive amounts of money weren't enough to convince the public if the news ever got out. After all the trials, it was one of the few progressive steps in cyborg rights, their protection from abuse.

To think someone had violated that law was more than chilling.

"This is a police case, then," Spirit said, his voice steely. Naigus shook her head.

"No, it isn't. How do we describe how we found him, Spirit? 'Oh, my friend was just strolling through the landfills,'" Naigus mimicked, dropping her voice.

"We don't have to mention the landfills," Spirit argued back. "The police force has the means to deal with this. This group doesn't. It's over our heads."

"His radioactivity is a dead give-away. He's going to need at least a few months to have that removed from his parts," Azusa mentioned.

"Not to mention the trauma his organic components took on from being there. It's a good thing he's mostly machine, or he'd be fucked," Naigus added, as though backup. Spirit clenched his jaw, and if Marie looked hard enough, she'd see the slight motions he made as he grit his teeth before he opened his mouth once more.

"Fine, a few months. Give him a few months to strip the radioactivity out, and then we'll take him in under a proper report."

"And then what? The examiner is bound to find our parts. And he'd be in too good of a physical condition to warrant any concern," Azusa pushed back.

"Well, what do you propose, then? Leave him with Marie? As though she has the funds to support two," he argued, and Marie bit her lip.

"We could do some underground work," Sid offered, causing every head to swivel in his direction. "Try to trace who did it, forge the documents at the stations."

"Lord Death isn't fool enough to think he overlooked documents about a cyborg experimentation case," Spirit urged. "The last time one of those was in the books was twelve years ago."

"Lord Death has cut shady deals in the past," Naigus informed. "He's just concerned about the image of the department and getting paid. He doesn't want his son in danger."

"He'd get heat from the rest of the department. Baba Yaga would be furious they weren't kept in the loop. They have the patent on all the cyborgs, in case you forgot. We're required by law to inform them of any cases that go through the stations involving that patent," Spirit spat.

"And if we find out they'd violated the law and committed cyborg experimentation? Baba Yaga wouldn't be a problem anymore," Marie added, bitterness seeping into her voice.

"It wasn't Baba Yaga," Justin finally broke in. "They're not good enough to get away with it entirely undetected. They're too massive."

"So if not a police report or undercover work, what? We act as vigilantes? This is a major case; it could force the law's hand to extend protection to non-emotional cyborgs," Spirit added, his eyes looking tired. "We can't sweep it under the rug. Sweeping Crona under the rug was bad enough."

The room was quiet at the mention of the pink-haired child. They were the case twelve years ago that proved fruitless. Marie looked down, playing with her fingers. "This is why we're here," she started before she looked up and caught the gaze of everyone else. "We need to think of what to do."

"Well, we can't do what we did with Tsubaki. He can't pass as human," Azusa said.

"He can't even pass emotionally," Naigus put in, sighing and closing her eyes. The dark circles beneath them were too permanent a feature recently.

Marie swallowed, her eyelid drooping over her warm, caramel eye. "So, what do we do?"

"The only thing we can do," Naigus started. Marie looked over at her, biting her lip.

"We wait."

Evidence File #32 for Case 3419

November 3rd

I asked Sid to do some more digging on facial recognition in the cyborg databases. It feels like we'd have to go farther back than we would expect. The missing reports gloss over a lot of stuff. It'll take a while for him to get back to me, but it could be a lead. Those databanks are massive.

The cyborg doesn't seem to like me very much. I know that's silly, since, with his emotions compromised, he doesn't have the means to like or not-like anything. Still, the way he acts around me. . . it's almost like I remind him of something unpleasant.

Maybe of someone? Who knows.

Was looking over some old notes from the beginning of the Empathy Project. So weird. The notes were barely legible.

Picked some new flowers to put into the burned out memorial candle.

Her name was Candice. At least, that's what her file said. Made specifically for Giriko's new "fear therapy".

He makes me sick.

She decided not to wait to get him proper clothing. If he was going to be living in her home, she wanted him to have something to call his own. After grilling Spirit for half an hour and putting his number on speed dial on her earpiece, getting his sizes for various brands, she went ahead and visited one of the nearby shopping malls.

The cyborg seemed a little slimmer than Spirit, though his shoulders were equally as broad and he was just as tall. He was just. . . malnourished. In more ways than one, she thinks bitterly. Malnourished of care, of food, of energy.

She sighed, clutching the large bag to her chest. It ate up half of her paycheck, but she figured it was worth it. She wasn't going to half-ass anything, never had a need to, and she knew from her days working at the Trauma Centers that anything someone could call their own was powerful.

She wanted to give him power. And if that came through a pair of jeans, then so be it.

When she walked into her apartment, he seemed to be in the same spot he was when she left, and she couldn't help but frown.

"You can turn the TV on, you know?" she said, almost wincing at how her voice broke the general silence. His head turned from staring at the wall to staring at her, and she pinpointed the exact moment that his gaze shifted to the bag she was holding. Marie locked the door behind her, shrugging out of her jacket and stepping forward until she was in front of him, moving slowly.

"I went to the store. I didn't know your size, but I hope it all fits," she told him, gently setting the bag down in front of him and stepping backwards to give him space. She thinks his eyebrows twitched together, but when she blinked, his entire face was still the smooth, passive expression it had always been. She chewed on the inside of her cheek. "If it doesn't fit, I can go back-"

"What do you want in return?" he asked, robotic and blank. Something in his eyes looked so dead, as though he was weary from the very idea of having to ask.

"R-return?" she asked, her eyebrows coming up. At the Trauma Centers, no one had expected anything in exchange. They had nothing to give.

His eyes lifted to lock on her own, and she almost shuddered at how empty they were. Her lips turned down.

"I don't want. . . I don't want anything in return," she assured, something in her weeping at having been asked.

He only continued to stare at her, as though trying to call her bluff, and she felt like she wanted to squirm out of her skin.

"I just thought. . . if you were gonna stay here, you could at least be comfortable."

"I am not," he said, words falling heavy in the room. Her frown deepened, but it had no affect on him.

"Well. . . then I wanted you to have something of your own. . . everything in that bag is yours, if you want it," she informed, softening her voice.

She was never good with words, but if she could have a name for the expression he was wearing, she thinks it would be mistrustful.

"Listen," she started, sighing and fidgeting about from where she was standing in her living room. "You don't have anything to call your own right now, okay? I wanted to give you something. Think of it as a gift."

"It is not a holiday," he deadpanned, and she almost wanted to giggle out of nerves.

"Well, happy birthday, then," she responded, jokingly, trying to lighten the mood. At that, he said nothing, his eyes flicking back to the bag though he made no move to touch it.

A few seconds went by before she sighed through her nose, turning around. She heard rustling almost immediately, and she felt her eyebrows go up before she whirled around and found him holding up the extra book she had picked up for him when she walked by one of the novelty shops that still had old-world things. Most people read things online, or had them read to them, so she had very few true books printed on actual paper in her home.

He was holding Frankenstein in his hands, staring at the cover, and only in that moment did she realize that it might be taken the wrong way.

She opened her mouth to explain that she wanted him to have something to occupy his time when she was at work, but his expression seemed to morph and she almost gasped when there was a flicker of pain and. . . something that looked like recognition on his face.

She didn't know how long they remained like that, with him holding the book in his hands, staring at the title, reading and rereading, his eyes flicking over the cover as though obsessively.

She just knows it was too long to be anything but important.

Evidence File #40 for Case 3419

November 9th

He still doesn't seem to remember his name, but "Frankenstein" seems to call out to him. Indication of recognition can't be confirmed through tangible evidence, but he reacts to being called "Franken" or "Stein". Considering he doesn't know his name before I found him, and he's found familiarity with "Franken" and "Stein", he's given me permission to call him that.

It's almost a little silly. Codename: Franken Stein. I feel like I'm in a novel, or something. Still. . . I'm glad he has something to refer to himself as. It felt so impersonal to call him "Cyborg" over and over again. As though that was all he was.

Azusa asked if I'd be willing to bring him over for another scan in a few weeks when Naigus would be over to help remove the seam's glue on his face. I don't know when I'll be free, but it feels wrong just to ask me. I'll ask the cyborg ["the cyborg" is scratched out] Franken in the morning.

There's something weird about him. His reactions are similar to how an emotionless bot would respond but there's something stilted in his responses. Might have to bring it up to Azusa, but she's been so stressed, recently. Haven't gone on a run in a while and we're almost out of fuel in the generators. Justin's been haggling on the markets, but it's so much cheaper just to get it ourselves. I don't want to bother her with anything since she's so preoccupied. Besides, I don't have physical proof. If it's something in his coding, she'll be able to find it.

No progress in the serotonin mutations at work. Giriko is getting impatient with no results. I wanna tell him to go fuck a chainsaw.

Weeks later, she realized that Stein didn't sleep. Not when she was in the house, at least. Part of her couldn't blame him, but the majority of her was aching over the fact.

Comfortable, Azusa had stressed to her, quietly, after the examination. His coding revealed that he wasn't getting any shut-down, and he was eating through energy faster than one of those old computer monitors. He was going to overheat if he didn't give his body a break. Something akin to a fever was spreading to his organic components, and there wasn't medicine on the market that he could take for it that wouldn't compromise his technology. Stressed was the last thing he was allowed to be.

Since they could do nothing else, Marie's home was meant to be a safe shelter until they found a spot in a safe-house for him or worked out some other means of help.

Comfortable her ass.

How could he possibly find comfort in a stranger's apartment, in a place where he was unaccustomed, in a home that he could not call his? Weeks had gone by and his shoulders still had that tensed, on-edge feeling to them. He denied food, water, sleep. He had no needs for those things and she wondered if, in his denial of such, he was proving he was self sufficient.

Whether he was trying to convince her or himself, she couldn't know. She didn't think she wanted to.

She hadn't expected him to jump for joy, no matter what, but she did think they'd progress beyond shrugs and her one-sided questions after the first month of living with one another.

"Hey?" she started, struggling to close her door behind her with so many bags in her hands. "I'm home!"

He said nothing, as he usually did and she finally managed to close the door, turning around and setting the various bags onto the floor so she could peel her jacket off. Upon looking over at her couch, she realized that he was immersed in his book once more and her eyebrows went up.

She didn't have much information on the matter, but she knew that emotionless cyborgs had no need for leisurely reading. They had no desire for such, and Stein had said from the very beginning that he didn't have the means to want.

But there he was.

Something was strange. There was no indication of change when he went to visit Azusa and Naigus with her, not in his coding or physically, but she could feel something was shifting. She had always been more in tune with the intuitive. Not like Azusa or Naigus. They needed numbers.

She just needed to feel like something was shifting. And she always trusted her feelings.

"Stein?" she asked, trying to get his attention so she didn't startle him as she walked past.

His head slowly lifted and she focused her singular eye on the cover. He made no noise to indicate that he had heard her, not even a grunt, but his stare cut through her entire body. She gave him a soft smile, but she couldn't help a confused churn in her stomach.

"Frankenstein, again, huh? I'm glad you like it!"

He continued passively staring at her, only shrugging his shoulders in indifference, and she kept her gaze locked on him for a moment longer than most would find comfortable, her eye focused on his glowing, artificial green orbs. When he blinked, somehow making his deadpan even deader, she jolted slightly.

"Oh! Sorry," she said, nervously fluttering her hands around before she scooped the bags up from the floor. "Just spaced out for a second," she reassured, swiftly making her way to the kitchen where she could drop the groceries she had picked up on her way from work. "Are you hungry?"

She knew if she turned around, he would only shrug, once more, so she simply set everything down, instead. "I'm making spaghetti. I guess it's a good thing I have a roommate since I always make too much. Leftovers for days, you know?"

The sound of pages turning stopped.

"I am not your roommate," he said, and it was so cold, she thinks her blood froze in her veins.

She swallowed.

Cold she was used to. But there was something else in his voice that seemed different from that. A spark, volatile and almost dangerous.

"Huh?" she asked, turning around to look at him, feeling his gaze on the back of her head.

"We occupy the same housing, but I am not your roommate," he repeated, but this time, it lacked the bite.

It lacked the bite that had definitely been there before.

"Right," she said, sucking in a deep breath, feeling her fingers twitch. "Right. I'm sorry."

Evidence File #52 for Case 3419

November 15th

[illegible, scratched out paragraph]

For the first time in months, she slams her door shut so hard, she wonders if it breaks, but she doesn't care.

She doesn't even have a word to describe how she feels about the "fear therapy". She thinks she's going to vomit. The entire bus-ride to her house, she wanted to claw the skin off of her hands.

Once, she thought they were bloodless. Now she knows she is an accomplice, no matter how grudging.

She doesn't have it in her for flowers or a memorial candle. She didn't even get the cyborg's name that time. The file didn't bother giving him one. But when they wheeled him in, she thinks something in her had jolted.

Marie barely spares a glance at Stein, sitting on her couch with that same book in his hands, but through her watery gaze, she thinks he flinches.

She doesn't have it in her to analyze that either.

The emotionless bot had stared at her the entire time, something accusing in his eyes. The bot Giriko tortured. The electricity, the fried circuits, the smell of molten metal, the sound of a bone breaking.

She doesn't want to think.

Her steps are harsh and furious as she runs to her room, the fragment of a sob on her tongue.

If she looked at Stein, she would have seen his gaze follow her, as though curious.

She isn't tired enough not to feel his eyes on her, though.

She wants to be alone.

Evidence File #56 for Case 3419

December 1st

Emotional outbursts disturb him. He's seemed more jittery recently. I don't know what to do about that. Or even why he's getting more responsive.

No one would believe me if I told them, but [scribbled out text]

He's finally gotten comfortable enough to eat. We've been visiting Spirit a lot, for general maintenance on surface hardware. He's the closest and the police force has finally slowed down a bit with no heavy vulture activity recently.

Leg still throbs, but it's getting better.

The Empathy Project is winding down. Arachne is getting frustrated over lack of results. Giriko's in hot water over not being able to elicit a response from any cyborg he's had in his lab. Who KNEW that hurting people wouldn't get positive results?

She doesn't know what she did. One second, she was talking to him, like normal. One moment, it was a calm conversation, regardless of how one-sided.

The next second, the instant "poor dear" slipped from her mouth while she was talking about the news, he was up on his feet, lashing out, something feral and angry on his face

Marie was so stunned, she didn't know what to do for a good few minutes. Was she imagining it? What had happened?

And then she knew. Or, rather, she didn't know. She only understood on the most superficial level.

His emotional center was compromised. Traumatized.

He went through trauma.

She had triggered him. She had triggered him and he had whirlwinded his way into the living room, which was his room at that point, and she felt something in her sink down deep.

If she could look at his coding, she knew it would be pulsing in pain. Sad and furious, angry, trying to protect itself with a harsh, flared up shield.

She stays in her kitchen, staring forward, staring at the half-eaten meal for at least ten minutes, trying to think. Trying to clear the jumble in her head.

She doesn't know what to do, not with him. He's delicate in a way she can't tip-toe around, but resilient and steely at the same time. He makes her uncomfortable, even in her own home.

The small spat they'd had (if one party shoving away and flinching and snarling as the other sat dumbfounded counted as a spat) made her stomach feel like it was knotting into a noose. When she still worked in the Trauma Centers, she went through such things in the past.

But she was out of practice. She felt transported back to the first time it had happened to her, back when a small girl called Rachel had struck both of Marie's hands away when Marie went to touch her shoulder. She had stormed off, angry and hurt, pained and broken, and Marie had no idea what to do.

She had no idea what to do.

Did she ever?

She remembers what a nurse had told her, all those years ago, when Rachel had stormed off.

"It's okay, Marie. . . it wasn't your fault."

Marie brought both her hands to her face, pressing one palm against her eye and the other to her eyepatch.

"Could you go see if she's okay?"

The clock ticked, and the sound seemed to echo.

"Talk to her, but not at her. Say you're sorry."

When she finally made her way to her living room, she spots him sitting on the couch, staring blankly ahead at the turned off television.

For a moment, it feels as though they're only going to watch a movie, and the false domesticity was so painfully artificial it made her throat feel like it was compressing in on itself.

She felt. . . nervous. She took in a deep breath before she walks through her doorway, making her way to him.

"Hey?" she calls out, but he doesn't turn to her and she can see his shoulders tense as though he's preparing for another fight. Instead, she makes her voice even gentler. "Hey? Can I sit here?" she asks, as she always asks, but this time, his head whips up. Nothing is shown in his expression, but for the briefest of moments, he seemed. . . surprised. Slowly, he nods his head, as he always does, watching her motions. Marie sits down next to him, making sure she isn't touch him.

"Thank you," she told him, looking to the side for a moment. Still no conversation, and when she glances back at him, she finds that he is looking at her.

His stare is unearthly. She almost wants to shiver, since she feels visually dissected under his olive gaze. Awkwardly, she quirks a smile, hoping humor could help.

"Do I have something on my face?"

"No," he tells her dryly. Her grin wilts and she looks down at her hands. No good. Just being next to him didn't seem to do anything to make him feel better. She sucks in another inhale through her teeth.

"Listen. . . I'm sorry, okay? I didn't know- I just. . . I'm sorry. You're in a really crappy situation and-" she cuts herself off, biting her lip. "I'm sorry."

He only shrugs, a sharp, mechanical motion as he continues examining her face. The nerves bubble in her and she feels like she's being observed like a lab rat. She is reminded of Azusa almost instantly, of her unnerving stare when Marie first met her, when they were just young girls on a playground.

She'd never had a friend before and Marie was one of the most popular kids in the entire school. Azusa thought it a trick, Marie's compassion. She didn't believe she was being genuine. And just like then, Marie blurted out the same phrase, the same means of trying to reassure her. The same thing she had said to Rachel, all those years ago.

"Can I hold your hand?" she spits out, cheeks warming. Back then, as a child, it was to show Azusa that she was unafraid of the entire school seeing them, knowing that Marie had decided to be friends with the younger know-it-all everyone teased and whispered about behind her back. This time, it was just for physical comfort. That was what she was good at, what she knew best. Crona had responded positively to hugs and hands on shoulders. Almost all the cyborgs she had ever worked with found her touch gentle and kind, taking pleasure in just being held or treated with dignity.

But, instead of a nod, instead of being surprised, instead of lifting his brows, his voice was cold.

"Why?"

She's taken aback, confused. "What?"

"Why do you want to?" he asks her again, gaze unnerving. She fidgets when she meets it, and he watches the line of her throat as she swallows. No one had ever asked her before. Then again, no one had ever been so. . . damaged, both physically and emotionally. No one she'd worked with before had been in his situation. Of course, they were traumatized. How could they not be, having lived in such a cruel world. But they had just found it amazing that someone would willingly touch them with friendliness after all they had gone through.

The words felt clumsy on her tongue.

"I. . . people find it comforting."

Something sparked in his eyes, though there was nothing in his voice that indicated fury. It was something else this time. "Don't fool yourself into thinking you're altruistic," he demanded, and it shot through her.

Her eye widened at the fury in his voice. "Franken, what-"

"You asked because you want to feel needed but I don't need you. I hadn't asked for your damn help," he informed her, turning his head so he was staring straight ahead once more. Were she a poet, she could describe the feeling close to a breaking in her ribcage, a smash of that delicate glass house. But she wasn't. She was an engineer, and she hadn't ever been good with words. Or with hiding things.

Ironic, she thinks. That she was constantly made fun of for being so over-emotional, hysterical, they would call her, in the same room as a legally emotionless man. Instead of humor, however, it only saddened her further.

She closed her eye, holding down the urge to flinch before she stood up.

Perhaps space was what he needed from the get-go. Maybe her ex-boyfriends were all right, that she was smothered, that she crowded, that she didn't know when to back off.

She would back off.

"I. . . I'm going to take a shower. Is that okay, Franken?" She tried her hardest to keep her voice even, gentle.

She didn't see his shoulders come up and down once more, jerking, as though he were a puppet on a string, but she expected it this time, and she woodenly turned to walk out of her living room. He didn't move while she found her way to her bathroom, and she was thankful of that. Though, she wouldn't have assumed he'd go after her.

She didn't live in a fairy tale or a movie. There would be no hand around her wrist from him, no "Wait," no "Stay?" no tender touches or apologies. Not then, at least. Maybe not ever.

It was wrong of her to want that from him. It was wrong of her to push her feelings, her comfort tactics on him. He deserved better. He deserved to feel safe.

The lock clicked behind her and she turned on the shower, only allowing the welling up in her chest to explode and the tears to come down, hot and fluid over her cheek, after the sound of her sniffles could be covered up. Her empty socket burned with a phantom pain, and she sat down on her closed toilet to set her elbows onto her knees, letting her bury her face in her hands.

Disgust.

He was so disgusted. By her, by her actions, by everything about her, maybe.

It was so cold from him. He was so cold in general, but that particular emotion read loud, clear. Unmistakable. In the back of her mind, she realizes that it's progress. She realizes that he had been making progress the entire time.

His coding might have been coming back.

His coding was coming back.

His emotions were reconstructing from the bottom up. He might never reach empathy, he might never be able to. But he was repairing himself. Repairing. It was monoemotional, but it was emotional.

And it hurt.

To imply she was being selfish, that ached so deeply in her. Her leg had just recently, finally, healed enough, though when she took her pants off, she saw the shiny pink scar-tissue she'd be left with for the rest of her life. She'd never be able to wear a short skirt, again. The burn would be so recognizable, people would instantly be suspicious of her. Her body had recently stopped protesting each movement, each pull. She'd opened her house to him, opened her fridge to him, her hand to him.

Selfish.

. . .But wasn't she, in a way? She knew touch wouldn't placate him: she only did so because she didn't know what else to do. She hadn't known what to do with Azusa, with Rachel. She never knew what to do. But it had worked with them, in the past. She thought it could work again. It was the only way she knew how to be around people. She wanted to hold him and comfort him with that since it made her happy to know he wasn't in pain: and wasn't that selfishness, in a way?

She remembers when she first found him, how his voice rasped, "P-pl-please," on a loop and she had to help him. She had to. Because if she left him there, collected as a broken man under too garbage, thrown away as though he wasn't a living being, she could never forgive herself. She would live with it for the rest of her life.

"I hadn't asked for your damn help."

She bites down, preventing a sob, forcing her tears away until her shoulders were trembling with the effort. He did. He'd pleaded with her. Or perhaps he was pleading with the world for a second chance, or for mercy. "Please" was prayer in her book. It was still faith, in a way.

You had to believe there was someone who would listen. Justin showed her that there were many different ways to have hope, to have faith. A cross at a throat, a star, a covered head, a glance at the heavens, a shrine, a bow, a begging stare.

A plea.

She had been there, by chance, by luck. No one could tell how long he'd been there, though the radioactivity of his old parts had traced at least a few days worth of fumes, so for her to show up was a miracle in of itself. For her to find him was against all odds.

And she had to believe that she was helping him.

He deserved better.

"It's okay, Marie. . . it wasn't your fault."

The sob that came out of her mouth felt jagged.

She just didn't know if what she was doing justified as such.

Evidence File #60 for Case 3419

December 7th

Giriko finally noticed the gaps in the files for the Empathy Project. I'm gonna return them to the archives tomorrow after Spirit finishes copying them at the station.

He doesn't believe me. I knew he wouldn't.

The files don't lie, though. Even under torture, no cyborg has shown that level of emotional response unless they had properly working receptors. Spirit didn't find anything out of the ordinary when we went over. Stein seems to be. . . uncomfortable with the idea of having to open up. He shuts down the second he leaves the house.

Hell, sometimes, he shuts down when he's still in it.

Who can blame him? I wish I knew what happened to him.

I don't wanna pry.

I don't have the right to pry.

Finally managed to gather enough dopamine from the labs to hand off to Justin to haggle on the markets. Spirit wanted to try a test for chemical reactions in Stein but I didn't feel comfortable.

He isn't a lab rat.

I don't care how much evidence we'll get out of it. I'm not using him like that.

Things had been so. . . stilted after that. He acted as usual, as though nothing had happened, and Marie shoved her feelings to the side. There was no room in their dynamic for spite or grudges, she couldn't hold what he did against him.

But she had proof that he was improving. It was amazing, honestly, that his coding was coming back at all, but it seemed as though, after his moment of anger, it was returning at a rapid, accelerated pace. Just a few days before, she had found him looking confused at something.

His walls were coming down.

And it was obvious that he didn't know what to do about it, that he didn't appreciate the ache that emotions brought. And, really, there wasn't anything volatile about him. It was just that he had no filter, no protection from his emotions. It was either everything bubbling up the surface, uninhibited, or nothing at all.

She was both unused to being around someone so open and guarded, and yet, proud over the progress he was making.

Part of it was unnerving, but the majority of it was fascinating.

She knew she couldn't go to a library for answers: his was the only case she had ever heard of, a cyborg with his emotional receptors removed. Her eyebrows twitched as she stared down at her journal, tapping her pencil over the page before she sighed and leaned back, the small light from her bedside table making her strain her eye.

She couldn't help but connect him to the Empathy Project, which was on thin ice. What he was doing on his own was what she was trying to synthesize.

Marie bit her lip.

Hard.

Evidence File #67 for Case 3419

December 14th

Started to watch old-world movies with Stein. I wanted him to have something other than Frankenstein to preoccupy his time. He prefers the Sci-Fi, especially Blade Runner.

Maybe it was selfish of me, but the Rom-Coms don't seem to be much up his alley. Still, they could help him weed through his emotions. There's nothing like a good melodrama to help work through some kinks.

Alright, so he was bored the entire time.

I don't know why, but he's been. . . easier to be around.

It must be him working through his emotions, even though he's still really monotone, most of the time.

I don't know, I feel like I want to spend more time with him. He makes me feel like everything could be okay [this entire section is poorly scribbled out]

No news from Baba Yaga. Everyone on the Empathy Project is on pins and needles. There's been talk about cutting the staff. No one knows where half the files have gone. Levels on the chemical testing came back that more is being used than is being accounted for.

I hope it all burns.

It took a stupidly long time for her to feel comfortable enough to go to Azusa with the news of his development. She was too concerned that the woman wouldn't believe her, considering how logical she often was, but she had the proof right in front of her, and after she stepped into Azusa's house, having settled on the couch across from her, she fidgeted around with her cup before she didn't take a drink from it, only setting it in front of her, on the table Azusa kept.

She didn't even blink. "I don't have any news in regards to the safe-houses," Azusa provided, looking as though she wanted to yawn. Not because she was bored, but because she was just that tired. Marie scrunched her mouth to the side, somewhat offended that her close friend would assume that she'd make the trip all the way to her house just for such arbitrary information.

"I know," Marie said, and Azusa's sharp gaze seemed to bore into her.

"So, you're here for pleasantries?" Azusa asked, already knowing that wasn't the case, and when Marie opened her mouth, she cut her off. "Or is this about what you told Spirit, a few days ago."

Marie flinched. She hadn't asked the man to keep it hush, but she didn't expect for the news to travel so fast.

"Marie, Spirit looked him over, he didn't notice any changes."

"He doesn't live with him, 'Zusa!" Marie insisted, the overwhelming urge for her to stand up crashing through her body. "I can tell, he's changed. He's changed a lot."

Azusa shook her head, leaning over so she could set her own cup next to Marie's. It wasn't that Azusa didn't trust Marie's expertise: if anyone at all understood emotions and emotional wiring, it was Marie Mjolnir. Her master's degree wasn't just for decoration, after all. Still, Azusa knew that Marie had a habit of attaching herself to people, to ideas, and it was more than obvious that she was planning on integrating him as a human-passing cyborg.

It was a pipe dream.

"Marie-" Azusa started, only to be cut off when Marie's eye flared.

"Azusa, I'm telling you! He's fixing his coding himself!"

"Marie, that's impossible. His emotions were singed away. Unless you've worked out something in the Empathy Project, he can't have his emotional coding replaced. Let alone fix it himself."

"Listen, if you just opened up his data bank, you'd see."

Azusa stopped at that, looking at Marie as though she had two heads. "We don't have any power to waste. You haven't been on a run in a while. The generators would run out before we even had him connected. He's like a leech."

Marie winced. It was all true. Cold, hard, rationality. "Azusa, please. I could go on a run. This could be revolutionary."

"You didn't make any progress on the Empathy Project in all your time of working at Baba Yaga. There's no way to create emotions in the emotionless, you know that," Azusa urged. The last thing she wanted was to risk Marie going out for another run when the last time she did so, it ended in such a horrific injury. She could have died twelve times over.

"This is the only case of his kind!" Marie said, finally standing up to relieve some of the passion bubbling through her. "He could be organically reconstructing his emotions!"

"Marie. . . are you sure you aren't just. . . imagining the change? Spirit told me he couldn't find anything to support what you said."

"That's why we have to open his data-bank," Marie said, still standing, seeming to tower over Azusa's seated form.

As much as Azusa didn't want to think about it, to pass up the opportunity to look him over would be foolish. She wasn't lying when she said they barely had any juice. The generators had been all but sucked dry from all the various check-ups that they had performed, and after so many fruitless looks at his coding, Azusa had decided to conserve energy by not looking anymore.

Azusa sighed, removing her glasses. Without the obstruction, Marie could see the pure fatigue on the other woman's face. The frustration. Some disappointment. But Marie's face was entirely set and she didn't look like she was going to budge up.

"When we get more fuel in the generators, I'll check," Azusa said, cleaning the lenses. She always did that when she was annoyed, or nervous. Marie nodded slowly, and Azusa squinted at her to better see the motions.

Marie face bloomed in relief, her skin seeming to glow. "I'll give Spirit a call and see if there are any plans to let up on the security."

"Don't bother. Sid told me everyone is working overtime for the foreseeable future."

Marie finally sat down, smoothing her palms over her skirt. "I guess I'll bring something over for Maka as soon as I can."

Azusa nodded, placing her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose. "Tell me when. I can come with you."

The other woman made a small noise of agreement before she looked over Azusa's expression.

"You don't believe me," she said and Azusa sighed again, heavily.

"I'll believe it when I see the coding. From what I've observed, he's the same."

"He isn't."

Azusa's eyes pinpointed onto her friend's singular, looking for something. "What have you observed?"

Marie almost flinched. The brunette must have spent one too many days with Joe back when Marie was still with him. The man did the same thing, those damn interrogation tactics. It was half the reason they broke up, after he told her he couldn't trust her.

It still felt a bit fresh.

Marie closed her eye.

"He's gotten. . . irritated. Which means he's started to get angry."

"It's the easiest emotion," Azusa pointed out. They both knew it. A cyborg that had anger but nothing else was still classified as emotionless. It was the empathetic emotions that really got them somewhere: that cyborgs could feel sorrow over others, happiness.

"I know," Marie said, but she'd already started to try to work on those as best she could. He had a fondness for books, from what she could see, and after she saw that he was starting to work through the emotional spectrum, she decided to take another step.

She thought that movies could help. He seemed even more bored with them than anything, but she hoped it could spark some sort of interest in him, some spark. If he had emotions at one point, he had to have experienced something in the films, and maybe they could trigger a feeling long-since removed.

Every night they'd settle on her ratty couch and watch films he seemed to have no interest in, old Action and Sci-Fi movies, and Romantic Comedies from when the world still had something worth being loved for. They were cheesy, sappy things she got too emotional over, and he would flinch every time she made a single sniffle, as though the very idea of her being sad was repulsive to him.

One day, she hoped he'd stop flinching. But, for the time being, she was actually thankful he had irritation in him. It was better than apathy.

Anything was better than apathy.

And. . . she couldn't help but feel more connected to him, despite his less than savory reactions. Partly because she was spending more time with him, though it was overwhelmingly in silence, but also due to the fact that he stayed.

He stayed with her.

Frankly, he didn't have much choice. It was remain with her or walk into the maw of a world that would slaughter him, but she had a feeling that if he was truly furious, frustrated to that point, he wouldn't take the time to watch with her. He would rather the open mouth of a slaughterhouse.

Though, she partially understands that she could be fooling herself. Perhaps he didn't care, after all. Perhaps she was making up the flinching, making up the anger, making up all his emotions.

She couldn't be absolutely sure until they checked his coding.

Marie wrung her hands, her voice still determined. "It's something, Azusa."

Azusa's brows were meeting closer to the middle but she said nothing as she looked at the warmth having settled over Marie's face.

If her friend was getting attached, too attached, that was on her.