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Remy lowers his head, fingers tightening against the scarf at his throat.
He mourns the body he lost.
He mourns the life attached to it.
He mourns her most of all.
But despite everything (despite the wrongness of his limbs and the unnatural glow beneath his skin and the terrible grief clawing through him) at least when he breathes this time, the air stays in his lungs.
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Remy closes his eyes.
The meaning should hurt more than it does.
Maybe he’s too tired for pride. Maybe some part of him understands the truth in it immediately.
He is something left over.
Made of spare parts.
A replacement, maybe.
His body isn't even finished yet, so his consciousness is probably aggravating to this.. person.
And yet…
He presses a hand shakily against his chest.
There is something there.
Not a heartbeat. But something. A sign of his existence, perhaps.
yes
Silence follows.
Then:
“✡︎⚐︎🕆︎ ☠︎☜︎☜︎👎︎ ✌︎ ☠︎✌︎💣︎☜︎📬︎”
He lowers his gaze.
A name.
The old one feels impossibly distant now. Like something buried with the body that had worn it first.
Still, hearing another offered so casually makes something ache inside him.
“What was I called before?” he asks before he can stop himself.
No answer comes immediately.
Perhaps there is no answer to give.
At last:
“☼︎☜︎💣︎✡︎📬︎”
He blinks.
The name feels strange in his ears. It's a new name. Not an answer to his question.
“Why?”
A pause.
“👌︎☜︎👍︎✌︎🕆︎💧︎☜︎ ✡︎⚐︎🕆︎ 🕈︎☜︎☼︎☜︎ 💣︎✌︎👎︎☜︎ ☞︎☼︎⚐︎💣︎ 🕈︎☟︎✌︎❄︎ ☼︎☜︎💣︎✌︎✋︎☠︎☜︎👎︎📬︎”
Remains.
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He stares at it through blurred vision.
It's soft at the edges from wear.
For a moment, he doesn’t understand.
Then he realizes where his hand still rests - clutched tight around his throat.
His breath catches.
Slowly, almost carefully, he takes the scarf.
The fabric trembles in his grip as he wraps it around his neck with his shaking, unfinished hands.
The relief is immediate and awful.
Hidden.
He swallows hard.
“…Thank you,” he manages quietly.
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He had thought he would never feel anything again.
And yet.. she’s gone.
The thought arrives cleanly, cutting through everything else.
She’s still gone.
Whatever miracle dragged him from the emptiness did not undo that night. Did not rewind the world. Did not place him back in that little house with her warmth beside him and dawn waiting patiently outside.
The grief hits harder now that he has a body to contain it.
He curls inward, one hand covering his mouth as though he can physically hold the sound in.
He doesn’t know how long he stays like that.
Eventually, another presence stands beside him.
Not touching. Just there.
A strip of fabric is offered silently.
A scarf.
yesssss
Hands around his neck.
The pressure.
The helplessness.
He reaches for his throat instinctively and freezes.
A scar, running all the way around his neck.
“No,” he whispers hoarsely.
The voice sounds wrong. Rough from disuse. Fragile.
He doesn’t want this.
Or maybe he does, and that’s worse.
Because buried beneath the horror is relief so overwhelming it makes him sick.
He can feel again.
The surface beneath him. The ache in his lungs. The trembling in his fingers.
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Pain follows the movement; not natural pain, but something like tension pulling through cords buried inside him. Beneath his flesh, green wires coil and twitch uncomfortably.
A noise escapes him before he can stop it.
Fear. Revulsion. Grief.
Alive.
The realization crashes into him all at once.
Alive alive alive-
He clutches at himself as though he might come apart.
His breathing grows uneven. Every inhale reminds him of the last time he’d needed air. Every tightening in his throat drags something horrible back into focus…
yes.
For years - or centuries, or perhaps only moments - there had been no hunger, no cold, no pain. No body to ache and no lungs to breathe. Only silence vast enough to swallow memory whole.
And then-
Weight.
Not much. Just enough to feel wrong.
Awareness returns in fragments. A distant sound. A strange pressure beneath him. The unbearable sensation of existing again.
His first breath tears through him.
He folds in on himself immediately, choking on the air that floods into his body. His chest spasms. His hands scrape against the surface beneath him.
Hands.
He stares at them.
Not because they are unfamiliar, exactly. They resemble hands. Fingers, palms, joints.
But something beneath the surface hums faintly.
Green light slips through gaps in his skin.
He jerks back instinctively.
