Dexterous mechanical fingers flicked through archaic printed after-action reports. Lifeless eyes took in their whole contents at once; the pictures Sone took could be easily parsed later in her "mind's eye," stored now as data and filed away for easy locating. One after another. Flick. Snap. Save. Flick. Snap. Save.
Her consciousness drifted over her storage architecture. There was little room given over to business not of UGN's interest. A few songs, although she preferred to listen to them externally. Some books as well, for the same reason as the songs: sometimes Sone's robotic nature lent her well to long stake-outs or sentry duty, and it helped to have something around for passing the time. A few pictures of places and things she found interesting. A few of her current friend, safe until she drives them away and purges the evidence just like always. One of her twin.
She lurched. Her brain tingled in its casing. Readings spiked for a moment. Electricity surged down her cerebellum and into her nerve column. The resistors kicked on in an instant. Heat began to build, then vent from her arms automatically. Her twin.
She set the papers down, standing quickly. With heavy footsteps she retreated, back into her bath. It was ironic, she had remarked, that she was given a facility that she couldn't use, but it was intended to make her feel more "human" again. Or too difficult to retrofit a standard-issue room, even for an accomplished agent. But it was discrete. Click. The door closed behind her.
She briefly considered deleting the photo again. Every time she did, it was never more than a few weeks before she scanned in the original again. It wasn't worth the risk. Not with her family gone. The image of her twin sister was irreplaceable. The last reminder of what she looked like before the accident. Before she became Flatline. Before she stopped being human. Stopped being human. Stopped being human.
She fell, crouched down on her knees, hands on her head. She always wondered, as her analytical mind desperately looked for an escape, if this was a normal attack or the work of the virus. Either way, she was woefully underequipped to process the welling panic. Because she wasn't human. She died. Maybe she's still dead. Maybe she's just a ghost. Maybe she's a program made by Dr. Ban to fill a suit. Maybe the real Sone is inside of her, and until Flatline dies the little girl will be trapped forever. Maybe she was in hell.
She wished she could cry, but her body was a rushed affair, incapable of showing any emotions. She couldn't even scream without great effort and consent. Terror and sorrow for her took a very strange look. She would lock up, unmoving, and begin to overheat. Steam filled the bathroom, pouring out from her auxiliary hent vents now. Her resistors would need replacing again. Because of how weak she was being.
She looked at the photo again. Black hair. Tanned skin. Smiling. God, smiling. Was she ever happy? What was she even like back then? Did she have *any* interests? Why does she forget her sister's face every time until she stumbles upon the photo again? Her parents were already gone, appearances lost to time. Why did those four people, that loving family, have to die just for this zombie to walk away from it all?
She stood carefully, the air thick and murky with vapors. She stepped towards the mirror. A hand reached up. Wipe.
The face revealed was white, nearly porcelain. Intense eyes with pale iris's darted back and forth. An unmoving mold of a subtle pair of lips sat under a near-featureless impression of a nose. Messy straight white hair dangled down. She had looked like this for 6 years. She didn't recognize the machine in the mirror for the entire time. She was in a nightmare. What had she been doing all this time? Working as a killing machine, feeling her brain wither away as it was denied the normal functions of a human for so long. It was unfair to real humans to assume their identity. It was an insult to them.
Servos whirred with unimpeded movement, electricity arcing across her frame. Her resistors were failing, one by one. Circuits frying, unnatural lightning coursing through phantom wires, guided by habit. Her hand drove through the mirror, into the wall. This was all a ruse, a lie she could tell herself. The truth was much darker. She could feel the human within her, pounding against its metallic cage, begging to get out or die. But there was no way out, and she could not die. She was stuck in her frame, stunted and built for war. She wanted to be pretty again.
Combat and self-preservation subroutines competed for control. The robot in the shattered mirror was an enemy that she could not bring herself to destroy. Even then, the virus would not let her die.
The door opened. Steam poured out into the room. A darkened figure stood beyond. Her fear and lethal instincts turned to the shape. A raised arm split to reveal a long barrel. Sparks built bridges between the polished metal and surrounded walls, kept from burning only by the grace of their ceramic construction. She fired. But the form was too quick.
Arms around her. What tactile sensors still worked detected fur. Well cared for, unlike when her and Sone first met. The arms gripped, hard. A reliable strength. Stubborn claws dug in. Her lightning pored into the figure, along with her residual heat. Smoke from burning hair. A voice.
Flatline's arm folded in. The gun disappeared.
Her vents began to close. The killer programming settled down.
Sone's arms and legs went limp. The wolf girl followed her down.
The machine powered down. Her brain slowly cooled off. The human stuck in the cage steadied its breathing and wiped away its tears. It reached a hand out of its cage, making the mistake of reaching for comfort once again.
Sone wrapped her arms around Alina. Mechanical fingers buried themselves into the wolf's coat. What energy she had left was spent crushing Striga with all her might, holding for dear life. Striga was strong enough to manage, squeezing Sone back just as tight.
