["I'm sorry." "I can't let something like that happen." The words are more than familiar—they're a near-perfect match, right to the downcast gaze that turns aside. Not looking at him. For a moment, Rinzler can feel the smothering heat inside the cell, feel the sharp fragility of damage smashed through his side. The ghost-data fades, but the gnawing drain it leaves behind isn't much of an improvement.
...he's weak.
It wouldn't be impossible.
Alan's program doesn't reach for his communicator. He doesn't flinch back this time, and he doesn't step away. It had done no good at all before. But there's a impossible weight to the stillness, something brittle and broken echoing beneath each beat of sound.
This was supposed to be better.
If Alan looks up, his declaration will meet only the smallest tilt of Rinzler's head. It's not defiance or refusal—he's holding together too carefully for that (he'd shatter if twitched even the slightest fraction more). He doesn't need to. It's just a (hateful) (empty) question.
no subject
...he's weak.
It wouldn't be impossible.
Alan's program doesn't reach for his communicator. He doesn't flinch back this time, and he doesn't step away. It had done no good at all before. But there's a impossible weight to the stillness, something brittle and broken echoing beneath each beat of sound.
This was supposed to be better.
If Alan looks up, his declaration will meet only the smallest tilt of Rinzler's head. It's not defiance or refusal—he's holding together too carefully for that (he'd shatter if twitched even the slightest fraction more). He doesn't need to. It's just a (hateful) (empty) question.
What is he going to do?]