Nick hears more voices, some muffled from behind the walls, others yelling in strikingly similar timbres. He tries to ignore them; he tries to press forward, but eventually, he finds he has nowhere to go. The hallway finally comes to an end, right near a room with more flickering images, voices and words he almost recognizes... and a figure he does. No matter how manufactured he may be, he can practically feel his pulse rise as he finally turns his attention to them.
The scene is something just on the cusp of his memory, a place he knows -- and he knows he knows, but still cannot identify through anything other than intuition. Lab coats, synths with golden eyes that look so much like him. It must be the Institute, or what of it Rey saw through his dreams. Who knows if it's real, or if it's something conjured up by a mixture of the gods' involvement and his own fractured memory; it feels real enough as he sets his own eyes on those synths, and realizes that one of those figures on the other side of the glass, flickering in and out like the unsteady blink of a failing bulb, is him.
Or it was him, was what he was when he was in there -- the subject of experimentation, a tool, a means to an end. Nothing more than that to anyone... except, perhaps, that other synth, the brother he never knew he had. How could he have forgotten someone who helped him escape? Who must have been important to him?
Nick's nose wrinkles in private disgust. Was his memory tampered with? Faulty? Or just plain incapable of remembering faces and individuals the way a human could? He sets his metal hand on the barrier; though it's not really metal, and the glass not really a barrier, he can feel the separation between what memories he has and what he can no longer fully recall all the same. It's only there, within the landscape of two minds, that he may ever get a glimpse of the brother he never knew... and may never know, if he's truly gone.
And the lingering question of what happened to him -- what Nick himself might have done to him -- remains. He's spent decades chasing after a man who murdered an innocent woman two hundred years ago; he argues against bloodshed in Hadriel, does what he can to protect people. He's supposed to be a leader now that he's co-head of the Guard, a pillar of the community they've all built together.
And yet, he may have just as much blood on his own hands. He gunned down IV to protect Rey; he shot Undine at her own request. Did he really murder his brother, the only synth who might understand what he's been through and how he came to be? Who might be able to tell him where the machine and the programming ends, and the man he was -- and is now -- now begins?
Nick's hand curls on the figment of the glass, rage boiling beneath his synthetic skin as the image flickers again; the scientists beyond the barrier struggle to calm him down as his brother looks on. His brother's posture is easily read: there is worry in the way he leans against the wall of his cell and tries to listen into the next room, concern as his shoulders stiffen, his hands wringing together. He wants to help, but is kept from doing so, sequestered in his own cell.
They were both tools. He might not be who he is -- detective Nick Valentine of Diamond City -- if not for their escape. Chances are they'd have both been decommissioned, disposed of the moment they were no longer useful to the Institute... or worse, they might have had their minds wiped and turned into the people-snatchers the organization is known for. His brother was a crucial part in forming who he is, and look at how he was repaid for his efforts.
Though he tries not to get trapped within those memories, Nick loses his temper as his revulsion boils over. He's not thinking about Safronov anymore, his mind consumed by anger he cannot settle, answers he cannot find. Grinding his teeth, he rears back and slams his fist into the glass as hard as he can.
no subject
The scene is something just on the cusp of his memory, a place he knows -- and he knows he knows, but still cannot identify through anything other than intuition. Lab coats, synths with golden eyes that look so much like him. It must be the Institute, or what of it Rey saw through his dreams. Who knows if it's real, or if it's something conjured up by a mixture of the gods' involvement and his own fractured memory; it feels real enough as he sets his own eyes on those synths, and realizes that one of those figures on the other side of the glass, flickering in and out like the unsteady blink of a failing bulb, is him.
Or it was him, was what he was when he was in there -- the subject of experimentation, a tool, a means to an end. Nothing more than that to anyone... except, perhaps, that other synth, the brother he never knew he had. How could he have forgotten someone who helped him escape? Who must have been important to him?
Nick's nose wrinkles in private disgust. Was his memory tampered with? Faulty? Or just plain incapable of remembering faces and individuals the way a human could? He sets his metal hand on the barrier; though it's not really metal, and the glass not really a barrier, he can feel the separation between what memories he has and what he can no longer fully recall all the same. It's only there, within the landscape of two minds, that he may ever get a glimpse of the brother he never knew... and may never know, if he's truly gone.
And the lingering question of what happened to him -- what Nick himself might have done to him -- remains. He's spent decades chasing after a man who murdered an innocent woman two hundred years ago; he argues against bloodshed in Hadriel, does what he can to protect people. He's supposed to be a leader now that he's co-head of the Guard, a pillar of the community they've all built together.
And yet, he may have just as much blood on his own hands. He gunned down IV to protect Rey; he shot Undine at her own request. Did he really murder his brother, the only synth who might understand what he's been through and how he came to be? Who might be able to tell him where the machine and the programming ends, and the man he was -- and is now -- now begins?
Nick's hand curls on the figment of the glass, rage boiling beneath his synthetic skin as the image flickers again; the scientists beyond the barrier struggle to calm him down as his brother looks on. His brother's posture is easily read: there is worry in the way he leans against the wall of his cell and tries to listen into the next room, concern as his shoulders stiffen, his hands wringing together. He wants to help, but is kept from doing so, sequestered in his own cell.
They were both tools. He might not be who he is -- detective Nick Valentine of Diamond City -- if not for their escape. Chances are they'd have both been decommissioned, disposed of the moment they were no longer useful to the Institute... or worse, they might have had their minds wiped and turned into the people-snatchers the organization is known for. His brother was a crucial part in forming who he is, and look at how he was repaid for his efforts.
Though he tries not to get trapped within those memories, Nick loses his temper as his revulsion boils over. He's not thinking about Safronov anymore, his mind consumed by anger he cannot settle, answers he cannot find. Grinding his teeth, he rears back and slams his fist into the glass as hard as he can.