To his horror, he is still alive. His cold heart is still beating, his lungs refuse to collapse, and his brain is more electric than ever, filling him with emotions he thought he had all too easily suppressed. It is another day, and another hell.
The space next to him is empty–it has been for a while now–and his facade is slowly crumbling. He cannot wait any longer.
His movements are jerky as he flies through the air, reminiscent of years long past when he was still naive and free from these burdens, and his reactions are careless. If she were here, he wouldn't even have to think about where to eject his next cable, which side to turn to–because he wouldn't have to. Two halves of a whole indeed.
Now, he is sloppy, artless, negligent. And he does not care. Because this is what happens when you have so foolishly given half of yourself away to someone, when you thought you would spend the rest of your short life with them, wake up next to them each day, protect them–yes. This is what happens.
Half of a person cannot function as well as one, he continues to repeat to the commander, she is expecting me soon, so that she may be whole again.
He is a dealer in death; everything he touches withers and fades, and she is no different.
Now, he lays his blood-stained hands on himself, and waits for her call.
The Titan smiles.