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hadriel_logs2018-03-09 02:35 pm
circumitus) wrote in hadriel_logs2018-03-09 02:35 pm
Entry tags:
you're part of a machine [OPEN/CLOSED]
Who: Rey/Safronov and Nick Valentine (feat Alphys) + a couple open prompts.
What: Finding out that she has limited time left before her brain melts due to the infection that led to her death,Rey Safronov suffers a few blackout episodes before she is able to bring her successor back.
Where: Abandoned shop, Science lab, Robot House (1401).
When: March catch-all (feel free to specify dates in the subject line when tagging an open prompt if it's important).
Warnings: Suicidal ideations and other heavy subjects.
7th-19th; Abandoned Shop [OPEN]
(are you insane like me, been in pain like me?)
The headaches only got worse as the days went by. Sometimes, she would hear the most unbearable ringing in her ears, like a grenade had just gone off right next to her head. More frequent came the nosebleeds, and within a week it became blatantly obvious that Safronov was working on borrowed time. She knew this, and there was no pride in being right.
Her memories at the Russian command center were vague at first, but over time she began to recollect her life more. Perhaps it was due to the infection constantly reminding her in the forms of distractions that were getting increasingly more difficult to ignore, but she remembers it all now: She had failed in her objective to destroy the synthetic's hub at the Grigoryevich Underground Center. As a result, its systems had trapped her. Hooked her up to a seat and sent a needle through the port to her brain.
It's not much unlike the needle that her successor had evidently worked from scratch, which had been used to unintentionally bring Safronov back to the forefront. Such a crude design, but one that did the job it was supposed to. All Safronov needed to do was make sure it did its job even better. Her DYI handiwork was all over the shop she had set up base in, so that she could labor on in peace. Peace that was becoming more frequently disrupted through headaches and, now, blackouts.
Sometimes, she would lose track of what she was doing, only to wake up on the floor after trashing the extra tables, chairs, and shelves around her. Quite a racket, for those passing by on the outside and happen to notice a light beaming in the mostly empty establishment.
At some point, it gets even worse. Blackout. Then, another bloody headache. Literal this time. Blood is coming out of her nose as she grips her head, screaming and rolling on the floor. The agony is searing through her skull, electrifying her body and she feels it under her skin.
One bullet should do the trick. In her blinding pain, she crawls across the floor, to the table where she had been working at to find her gun there. Or, Rey's gun. Her successor's gun. It isn't like she hasn't done this before. This is her body, after all. A different owner has taken it now, but she recognizes the subtle flaws and blemishes that were special to her.
Regardless of whose gun this belongs to, it's Safronov's pill now. Just what the doctor ordered.
20th; Science Lab [CLOSED to Alphyssciencelizard + Nick Valentine synthedick]
(do you tear yourself apart to entertain like me?)
Of course, her only 'remedy' had been less than ideal, though unsuccessful. In the end, she can't.
This isn't Safronov's life to take away anymore. Despite the pain that Rey had so badly wanted to erase, it was clear that she didn't want to be removed from the world entirely. Not when there were people who cared for her.
More than anyone ever cared about Safronov. There would never be anyone to mourn over her death, and she was better off that way for it. It gives her less reason to cling to this life, or lament the inevitable.
Still wracked with the hot pulsing pain tearing through her skull, Safronov somehow manages to make it across this strange and hot city, back to the place where she had began. While most seem to arrive here through that Door, she came through different means. Unlike the people here, however, she has an exit strategy.
Her nose is bleeding once again as Safronov opens the door to the science lab, the bag holding her supplies that she will need for this slung over her shoulder.
"Doctor?" Safronov calls into the lab before entering. She can't recall if the reptilian scientist had ever designated herself with such a title, but that is what she is called now. Whether the fact that such a creature could even be called a scientist has never struck her as strange, however. Perhaps a little bit of her successor remains, grounding them both, or it's just that Safronov has bigger concerns. "Are you here--?"
Oh. Oh no. Not again--
Safronov grunts, staggering forward while the door slams behind her. Eyes squeezed shut, she finds a wall to rest on, fighting to remain conscious this time.
30th; House 1401 [OPEN to close CR]
(you can't wake up, this is not a dream.)
Nearly a week and a half passes and Rey's body barely stirs in her bed, though it's hard to say if she still even is Rey. If not for the steady breathing, one could easily mistake the prone woman for a corpse.
Though she doesn't show it, every so often she is cognizant of her surroundings. Voices of those standing over her, their presence nearby. She hears, she listens, but she could never reply.
Until the ninth day since Safronov had gone rifling through their head once again. Only her eyes open, and for the first several hours all she can do is stare at the ceiling over her bed. Process her surroundings, feelings... who she is, why she's here, what happened. She remembers her name -- or a name, more like it. And a few other things. The mysteries keep her thoughts more than occupied for the long hours she can't move.
And then she blinks.
Isn't it about time you wake up, sleepyhead? says a quiet whisper in the back of her mind. Where has she heard that before? In a dream?
The questions flutter away as she closes her eyes again, until she hears the sounds of footsteps approaching the opened door to her room.
To what should come as no one's surprise, curled up at the end of the bed is a three-legged cat, whose head lifts at the prospect of company. They will find themselves being stared at by the one, single eye belonging to the creature, before yawning as he stretches his front leg over the covers.
What: Finding out that she has limited time left before her brain melts due to the infection that led to her death,
Where: Abandoned shop, Science lab, Robot House (1401).
When: March catch-all (feel free to specify dates in the subject line when tagging an open prompt if it's important).
Warnings: Suicidal ideations and other heavy subjects.
7th-19th; Abandoned Shop [OPEN]
(are you insane like me, been in pain like me?)
The headaches only got worse as the days went by. Sometimes, she would hear the most unbearable ringing in her ears, like a grenade had just gone off right next to her head. More frequent came the nosebleeds, and within a week it became blatantly obvious that Safronov was working on borrowed time. She knew this, and there was no pride in being right.
Her memories at the Russian command center were vague at first, but over time she began to recollect her life more. Perhaps it was due to the infection constantly reminding her in the forms of distractions that were getting increasingly more difficult to ignore, but she remembers it all now: She had failed in her objective to destroy the synthetic's hub at the Grigoryevich Underground Center. As a result, its systems had trapped her. Hooked her up to a seat and sent a needle through the port to her brain.
It's not much unlike the needle that her successor had evidently worked from scratch, which had been used to unintentionally bring Safronov back to the forefront. Such a crude design, but one that did the job it was supposed to. All Safronov needed to do was make sure it did its job even better. Her DYI handiwork was all over the shop she had set up base in, so that she could labor on in peace. Peace that was becoming more frequently disrupted through headaches and, now, blackouts.
Sometimes, she would lose track of what she was doing, only to wake up on the floor after trashing the extra tables, chairs, and shelves around her. Quite a racket, for those passing by on the outside and happen to notice a light beaming in the mostly empty establishment.
At some point, it gets even worse. Blackout. Then, another bloody headache. Literal this time. Blood is coming out of her nose as she grips her head, screaming and rolling on the floor. The agony is searing through her skull, electrifying her body and she feels it under her skin.
One bullet should do the trick. In her blinding pain, she crawls across the floor, to the table where she had been working at to find her gun there. Or, Rey's gun. Her successor's gun. It isn't like she hasn't done this before. This is her body, after all. A different owner has taken it now, but she recognizes the subtle flaws and blemishes that were special to her.
Regardless of whose gun this belongs to, it's Safronov's pill now. Just what the doctor ordered.
20th; Science Lab [CLOSED to Alphys
sciencelizard + Nick Valentine synthedick](do you tear yourself apart to entertain like me?)
Of course, her only 'remedy' had been less than ideal, though unsuccessful. In the end, she can't.
This isn't Safronov's life to take away anymore. Despite the pain that Rey had so badly wanted to erase, it was clear that she didn't want to be removed from the world entirely. Not when there were people who cared for her.
More than anyone ever cared about Safronov. There would never be anyone to mourn over her death, and she was better off that way for it. It gives her less reason to cling to this life, or lament the inevitable.
Still wracked with the hot pulsing pain tearing through her skull, Safronov somehow manages to make it across this strange and hot city, back to the place where she had began. While most seem to arrive here through that Door, she came through different means. Unlike the people here, however, she has an exit strategy.
Her nose is bleeding once again as Safronov opens the door to the science lab, the bag holding her supplies that she will need for this slung over her shoulder.
"Doctor?" Safronov calls into the lab before entering. She can't recall if the reptilian scientist had ever designated herself with such a title, but that is what she is called now. Whether the fact that such a creature could even be called a scientist has never struck her as strange, however. Perhaps a little bit of her successor remains, grounding them both, or it's just that Safronov has bigger concerns. "Are you here--?"
Oh. Oh no. Not again--
Safronov grunts, staggering forward while the door slams behind her. Eyes squeezed shut, she finds a wall to rest on, fighting to remain conscious this time.
30th; House 1401 [OPEN to close CR]
(you can't wake up, this is not a dream.)
Nearly a week and a half passes and Rey's body barely stirs in her bed, though it's hard to say if she still even is Rey. If not for the steady breathing, one could easily mistake the prone woman for a corpse.
Though she doesn't show it, every so often she is cognizant of her surroundings. Voices of those standing over her, their presence nearby. She hears, she listens, but she could never reply.
Until the ninth day since Safronov had gone rifling through their head once again. Only her eyes open, and for the first several hours all she can do is stare at the ceiling over her bed. Process her surroundings, feelings... who she is, why she's here, what happened. She remembers her name -- or a name, more like it. And a few other things. The mysteries keep her thoughts more than occupied for the long hours she can't move.
And then she blinks.
Isn't it about time you wake up, sleepyhead? says a quiet whisper in the back of her mind. Where has she heard that before? In a dream?
The questions flutter away as she closes her eyes again, until she hears the sounds of footsteps approaching the opened door to her room.
To what should come as no one's surprise, curled up at the end of the bed is a three-legged cat, whose head lifts at the prospect of company. They will find themselves being stared at by the one, single eye belonging to the creature, before yawning as he stretches his front leg over the covers.
no subject
As Nick starts forward, the path of translucent veins, glowing and red, slopes to a descent. It winds in twists and turns, before it comes upon a glass room. The details are vague, save for a woman in a white dress. Her golden hair flows to the back of her knees, strands covering her face (although someone like Nick might have no trouble distinguishing certain familiar features).
At least shes's clearer than the shadowman in the room with her, standing taller than her so that he has to lean forward when he appears to be looking at her hidden face.
"You're burning up. You can't be sick, can you?"
"Feel nothing," she says in a voice that Nick should know well, but she's not the Rey he knows. She sounds hollow, dead.
"Perhaps that is for the best." The man's amusement is audible in his voice, like this is what he wants.
The golden-haired woman moves forward, shoulder bumping against the man. He goes to grab her arm, only to stagger away with a yell, his hand red hot and burning. He yells in agony as blood starts trickling down his face. The woman bleeds as well, a thick black substance dripping from her hands. A flash of flame sparks but does not take.
And then it stops. The man gasps, slowly pushing himself onto his feet, panting through the noticeable pain. "What do you... feel now? Don't tell me you didn't feel something after that..."
"Do not."
"What you mean to tell me is that you're incapable of feeling anything? Anything at all?"
"Only for her."
"'Yet each man kills the thing he loves'. Do you want to die, Freyja?"
Ḿͦ͗ͨ҉͓ẹ̡̪̞̳͎̫͎̅̄̏̌ͪͧͥͤ͢͡ͅm̡̨̱̞̼͕̦̣̊ͥ͐͝o͕̼͍͙ͣ̾̈̑̾́̔̌̅͞ͅŗ̼̮̝̫͕̺̹̪ͬ̅̾ͧ̆̂̇͐̚̕ẏ̸̡̲͉̺̺͒̈̍̍̑ͅͅ ̜͖͇̣ͮ̐̍ͦ̔Ḙ̩̲̱̙̮̫͂̈̌̿ͥ̈́̑͝ŕ͎̥̾̌ͦ̿́ͅr̡̼̥͕̲̝̆ͮͮ̊ͅo͈̞̥͎̖̯̿ͤͯ͌͛̾͌̾̀̀͢r̫̖̥͈͖̠͎̩ͯ̅̽́̀.̢͓̮̳͔͙̞̮ͥ̊ͧ͛͞ ̫͇̭͉͙͕̣̠ͣ̐̏̇͒̄̈̐͜͞S̤͉̥̗̩͚̘̞̹ͬ̂̑ͯ͂̌ͣ͟͞ơ̖̲̪͇͙̿̉̅̍̏͢m̷̦̘̱̝̥̺͇̤̎̈́ͪ̈̅̑̚͝e̡̺̼͈̗̙̺͍͈͂̂ͧ͊̉͊ͯ́̕ ̛̫̩̞͋̇D̴͚̯̘̤̥̖̮͛̈̽́ͥ͞ͅa̜̦͈͈̰̗̐ͣͤ͂̚tͮ̾̌ͣ̽͑͏̬͈̱̪̼͈͘͞a̧̭͚̝̣̭ͯ̌̆̽̿͛̏͒̉͡͡ ̳̤̠͖͕̗̙̼̖ͭ̉̓ͮͧ͑̋́̚U̵̞͚̘̭̦̝͇̱͉̅͐̂̽̇͂ͮn̛̗̻̗ͭ̈́̅̎̂͘ä͖́ͤ̋́͞v̘̝̹ͥ͐̊̅͑̑̾͘a̯̫͓͖̘̜̞͑͑ͫ́̎̐ͧ̆͜i̧͇̠̗͔̪̭̞̜̥̅̆l̸̠͕̞̙̟̯̻̫̗̑ͯ̾̃ă̻̤̱̋ͧ̓̐͛b̭͍̲̭̘͙̐̽̅̈̃̇̚͞l̴̼̜͔͇͎̈́̾͆ͣ͂ͨ̚͢eͪ̿͏̘.̶̧͕͚̮͇̈̾̔ͣͬ̓
̉ͦ̀̍̐̇҉̭̙̣̘̩̰̺̙̕
̴̛̥̩̮̼͉̀D̛̞̪͚ͬ͗̓o̮͙̣̘̘͙̞͉̾̐̄̓͑͐̚ͅ ̭͉̩̦̥̥̻ͬ͆́̕͡ͅY̵̧̖̘̝̰̯͎̫̫͌͒ͪͅo̸̸̙̲̼͚̪͙͉ͤ̎̓̀͌͜u̦͎̳̹͎͌ͤͫ̋̽́ͅ ̯͙̜͍̯͖͍͋ͦͧ͊̆͐̾̈́ͦ́W̳̄̾ͭͫ̓ͨ̓ͨͅi̜̳̇̓ͮ̎ś̸̘̠̼̠͎̐ͪͬ̂͐͜ͅh̲͙̤̙̼̻ͧ̈́ ̒ͧ͝͏̭̳̯̻̠T͓̰͆́̈́͊̓̅͗̌o̷̞̳ͦ̾͠͝ ̬͐̌͆ͩͦ̐͡P̶̱̦͂ͮͩ̿̉̏͐͢r̵̷͚͕̻̎͆̿ͧ̐͌o͕̟͚͙̱̙̩̅̾̀c̪̺̪̺̼̲̦̳̻̑͗͒͒ḙ͆̓̀̎ͪ͟e̙̥ͭ̒͐͒̇͘d̤̥͓̘̯̲͕̞̽̉?̜̪̤͈͙̞͎̯̳ͩͩ͂͘
Before she could answer, the scene glitches. In its place is a burning laboratory, though much of the details are blotted out and objects and tools flickering in and out of existence. The same golden-haired woman is standing amid the fire, unconcerned with the smoke and heat around her as she stares down at her hands, blackened and shaking.
Every so often one of the tables glitch, revealing a body on the floor. A woman with similar fair hair as the other, though shorter and definitely familiar in a number of bittersweet events, some more bitter and others more sweet. But now that woman is unmoving, unbreathing. Her neck twisted in an unnatural way, with burn marks in the shape of hands around her neck...
M̤̼̹̟̉̂̂̉ͮ̿́ͅe̡̪ͬ̇̓͛m̧̲̤͚̬̳o̮͛ͮ̋̕r̼͖̋ͩ̎͢y̟̻͖ͧ̄̍͞ ̲͚̳ͬ͛̓ͧ͊ͅͅE̙̤͊ͫ̂̉ͫ̽ͅr̬̳͑ͯ̒r͚͙̟͚̩̗ͦͮͣ͑ͅơ͖̺͙̥̗̞̝͊́r̸̗̰̥͓̘̹̤̉͊ͩ.̤̹̫͎̠ͨ͒ͭ̆̐ͯ̚ ̪͙͈͇̈̀̔̋͐̔̽S͉̩̜̠͉̠̿́ͯ͗͆̋͜i̻͚̫̞̙ͧg̬̃ṇ̯̲͓̃̉͐ͧ̅͗́a̲̼͙̟̾ͩl͕̳ ͉͙̆̓͊̎͆I̮̪̼͌n̶͉̬̜̥͕̮̼͐͆̓͗͋ͤţ̹͒͌̂ͮ̍ͪͧeͧ͋ͥ̈͝r̠̬̙̰̹̹f͙͚̪̜̑̂͗̓͛ȩ̞ͬͯ̃̊͋ͭr͙̺͙̗̫̊ē̡ͦ͆̿̎́̈́ṅ̤̟̩͓̪ͬͭ̉̉̀c̪̬̯̺̥e̯͖̙ͅ.͕̙́
The Russian inflection of Safronov's voice speaks: "Continue. This is only distraction."
Though the memory is one Rey could definitely use some fixing up... there are more recent wounds that need healing.
no subject
He doesn't need to be able to make out the man to know who he is. Nick has heard plenty from Rey, and the man's tone, dripping with the kind of arrogant amusement that makes the synth's proverbial blood boil, tells him the rest. He instead settles his eyes on the woman who would eventually be Rey. There's not much more he can do than watch her face, try to understand what she's going through, what she felt in that moment.
But every now and then, the closer the memory comes to the end, his eyes are drawn to that glitching table, and to the body that lies beneath. The first glance is painful enough for him, given all that has happened in Hadriel and who the gods chose to bring there; there is a flash from his own memory, her body no longer twisted and burned, but bleeding out from a gunshot wound. It's Undine one second, then Jenny the next, and—
Nick forces himself to look away. With as many gruesome and grisly sights as he's seen over the years, even in a wasteland like the Commonwealth, even some are too much for him to bear... especially now.
Tragic as this memory may be, it helped shape this woman into the Rey he knows. He starts moving again without a word to his guide, wondering if, in their connection, she caught that flicker from his own mind.
no subject
Instead of a scene playing out before him, Nick will pick up white noise in the once agonizing silence. At some point, he would make out the harsh words: "Gutter born BITCH!"
Static. There is sound of a struggle. Two women fighting, lashing out at one another. The other's voice is distorted, but the first...
"No!" yells the same woman who cursed before. "Fight BACK, damn you!"
More static. Somewhere in the noise, Rey can definitely be heard, but remains nowhere to be seen: "Why? So you can feel better about" --static-- "lling me?"
"You do" --static-- "to me!"
The sound of a blade sinking into flesh is more audible than one would ever deem comfortable.
"See?" comes Rey's ragged voice. "That wasn't so hard."
Drops of blood dribble across the floor at Nick Valentine's feet. It shouldn't, but logic and reason barely bares sense in a mindscape this conceptual.
Safronov speaks again, almost as if she's making sure Nick knows that she's still there, not losing him into the darkest place of the synthetic mind.
"Ah. Good. I can work with this," Safronov says. A few seconds later, she adds: "Careful going ahead. Getting some warnings. Something about 'mnemonic synthesis'--"
She cuts out abruptly.
no subject
An audible drip draws Nick from his thoughts and his eyes to the ground, the blood falling from seemingly nowhere in the void above him. The mind doesn't always make sense, and he never expected Rey's would, given all she's been through. Time after time, life after life, one tragedy following another. She deserves better than the hand she's been dealth; he's always believed that, and done his best to make things right for her. Nick wanted her to see what humanity had to offer, and she was kicked down once more.
Thankfully, Saf seems to realize this is one memory that could stand to go. Her voice cuts out just after her warning, but Nick remains still for another second, using the silence that follows to sort out his thoughts. Even if they encrypted all traces of Maketh, or at least their relationship, what problems would the holes in her memory cause? Will Rey remember Hadriel at all? Or him? Though he generally tries to be optimistic, to see the good in the world and work toward it, he cannot help but think of a worst-case scenario, where nothing -- not even Rey herself -- is salvageable. How many people will mourn her loss? And how will he move on?
Everything he is came from the original Nick, and if there's one thing the synth knows about the real Valentine, it's that the man struggled when he felt he'd lost everything. He's not sure how a botched copy like himself will manage, but this isn't about him. It's never been about him. Everything he does, he does for others, for the good of the world, for justice. He has to remember that, and keep moving forward.
Nick hears voices again, and takes few steps, bringing his eyes up to those concrete walls -- only to find they are no longer concrete. For a split second, they are pristine white, blindingly so; he hears voices in the distance, ones more distorted than before.
"I̵ ̀͘d̸͠͠o̷͢n͟'̴̢t ͘͢want҉҉ ͘t͜҉o ̕h̢͞u̶͡r̷̕t҉̢͠ ̡̨y̴o̷͟ù!̶͝"
Is... is that his voice? No, Nick chides inwardly, shaking his head. It's close, but not identical... but whose is it, then? He grinds his teeth, putting a hand to his head, his frame shaking. It's only a few moments before it passes, and everything returns to normal -- as normal as it can be in this computerized mindscape of theirs. He can hear scuffling, more voices, but can't place who they're from, or when. It's not Maketh and Rey.
He takes more steps, letting the neural veins spread before him. "Safronov?"
no subject
As if what he just heard wasn't confusing enough, what comes next is most definitely Nick's voice, without a question: "The name's Nick Valentine, and no one in my family tree is a plastic-skinned freak!"
Was this his memory, or a memory that Rey had once already shared? Safronov mentioned 'mnemonic synthesis', but without her specifying what they actually means then all it is is more scientific technobabble.
The first voice echoes in the crackling light: "Y̵̕oư̢̕'͏́r̵̨e ͏͏j͘͜u͝s͞͠t҉͏ ̸̕c̛͢͏o͟͞͠ǹ̴f̡u͘s̀e̡d̀̀. L̡͡e͠t̷ ͡m̸e͟ ͏̶̨hé͢l͏p̧̢.̴.͜͠.̕͢͜"
Static.
Their words break up, with some twisted feedback audible in the walls surrounding Nick: "S̛t͞án҉d͝ ͜b͜a͘c͠k͟.͏ H̛e̷ is ͞so͢metimȩs l̡o͟s̷t͜ ẁhen͡ he҉ ̢awake͡n̶s͘."
Static.
"I don't think I'm real." That's Rey, though it plays back warbled and wrong. Like she shouldn't be here. "Rather, I don't think any of this is real. Not really."
(No. Stop. What is this? Why is she here?)
"We'͡re͝ ̧p͡r͘o͟t̵ơty͝pes͢"
(This can't be right.)
"He͘ is͘ ̵m͠y̢ ̧b̕ro͘t̨hȩŕ i̧n th҉is͜, a̛s̡ c͠l̶os̢e to fam͡ --" (break) "--cán ͡hav̢e̴.̛"
(This has to be the wrong memory.)
"Wh̸at ̨th̡ey̢ ̴ha͜v̢e d͘o̸ne͡ to hi͠m͡... k̢e҉ep͜ ͠do̷i̧n̨g t̸ǫ ҉him͟..."
(Safronov tries to link, but there's too much interference.)
"it is h҉a͏rd f̷o̴r hi͡m̢ to ̶rem͞e̛mb͝er ́m͝e f̀o͟r l̢on͘g."
(Emotional distress? That has to be the root cause. Dammit, Nick, neither of you are holding it together.)
"H̛e̷ is ͞so͢metimȩs l̡o͟s̷t͜ ẁhen͡ he҉ ̢awake͡n̶s͘."
"Valentine?" Safronov finally speaks again in the middle of the white noise and scuffle between Nick and his 'brother', struggling to maintain an audiatory link between them for long. "You need to be calm."
Easier said than done, Saf.
no subject
Why can't he remember?
His pace picks up the longer he's in that hall, the voices and the need for truth urging him on. He has to know; he has to find out what he's been denied for so long, what has been eating him alive since the gods sent them into one another's dreams. There's a second where nothing else matters, where he's sure the sounds are getting closer, but—
He stops as Safronov's voice cuts in; his fingers curl. "The hell is this, Safronov?" he asks, as 'mnemonic synthesis' apparently wasn't clear. He didn't get his memories copied from a scientist.
no subject
Too late to go back at this point. It's not like they can just disconnect and find another synthetic to connect with.
No, they have to do this now.
"It's an event where two linked minds start to bleed together. But this one appears to have already been here. Odd."
Maybe it would have made more sense if she had known about the dreams people shared, or the many other occurrences that can't be explained through the same logic Safronov is so used to.
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He shakes his head again. He can't do this -- not now.
"She saw this," he tries to explain, hoping it'll give him some time to right himself out. He can still hear the fighting, blows becoming heavier, all set to the hum of fluorescent lights and electronics. "The gods had us live through each other's dreams. This one isn't what we're looking for."
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Safronov goes quiet again, giving Nick no other choice but to proceed -- either passed or through the memories bleeding together.
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He doesn't have a choice, though. He sets his eyes on the corridor before him and keeps going, ignoring the walls beside him as they go from solid to glass, the blank rooms beyond the barriers as seemingly endless as the hall itself.
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That is, until he passes by a room of flickering images like before with Rey's memories. They were split second visions, but enough for someone like Nick to catch a hint of familiarity in those figments: People in green and orange coats. Computers. A cell where two synthetic men are held, identical in appearance from their pale and gray skin to glowing yellow eyes.
If Safronov is present, she does not make herself known. Is she preoccupied, or is there something wrong with the connection? Because the helplessness and loneliness of this place is harrowing as it is.
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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.
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Suddenly, the lights of the white room shut down with a soft electric sigh of the power. Nick is left in pitch blackness -- and alone. No more echoes of the past to haunt him from beyond his confinement.
That's when the cell door opens, and Safronov is heard:
"Might have found problem. Should have run diagnosis on your hardware limitations before linking conduit. Suppose we didn't have such luxury."
It's not like she had a lot of time to get things prepared when she could feel like her brain was about to melt right out of her skull. Maybe she was too blinded by the pain to think straight, but it's pointless to dwell in regret now. Just knowing why this synthesis is happening is good enough for her.
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And Saf's mention of hardware limitations only serves to remind him just how different he and Rey can be, despite all the commonalities they've found within the city, bonds that pulled them together as the closest thing to a family that either of them may ever have. Nick brings his hand from the wall down to his side, pulling in a breath. It's not often that he loses his cool, but when he does, it at least tells Nick that he has some humanity within him somewhere, despite his artificial frame. He's not just a machine; he's not just another synth. He has an identity, even if it's a borrowed one.
And Rey does, as well. She may have had a lot of lives copied into her grey matter, but she'll always be Rey to Nick.
"You gonna tell me what the problem is?" Nick asks as he starts for the door.
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"Apologies. There are limits to your memory. Oldest data is overwritten when hardware runs out of space. It is like... old processor struggling for comparability with newer technology. Annoying. But it can be done with programming." After another moment, Safronov adds: "I will try something. Keep going."
Beyond the door before Nick Valentine leads to a place familiar to him and Rey alike.
The Guard headquarters.
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Limits to your memory, Safronov's words echo in his head. He should have realized it sooner -- it's all obvious in hindsight, no matter how much he'd like to deny it. The times he called himself an old bot, said his warranty expired, that they didn't make them like him anymore -- all those idioms about obsolete technology ring painfully true to a degree he'd never even considered, his perceived humanity blinding him to the more harrowing complications of being more machine than man. If the busted terminals of the Commonwealth could only hold so much information, why did he think he could do any better? Because he feels human sometimes?
And worse are the implications of what that means for the future. If this limit on his memory is why he can't remember his brother, their escape, and his demise, what else has he lost over the years? And what more will he inevitably lose? It's not that the human memory is a flawless system, but at least the living tend to lose their sharpness as they age, as things wear down and they meet their natural death. He's not alive: he'll keep running until his parts wear down, or until something finally breaks him permanently. It might be another month, might be another century.
And if what Safronov is saying is true, he might not be capable of remembering the beginning of his synthetic life by the time he reaches the end of it.
Hell, he already doesn't. How long has it been since he escaped the Institute? Nick realizes now that he couldn't put an accurate date on it if he tried, years simply erased without his ever knowing due to some programming in the hardware. How many lies has he told himself, holes has he filled in with conjecture where his memory failed him? He wasn't tossed into the trash, after all -- he escaped, and he wasn't alone. He only thought he was because he couldn't remember.
And if he stays in Hadriel long enough, there might come a time when he can't remember the Commonwealth at all. Not Diamond City, not Ellie, not the people he's helped and the people who helped him by treating him like a human being for the very first time. And what about Jenny? Will her memory be put to rest not with justice for her murder, but with some computer error that erases her completely? What about Rey?
Nick's shoulders tense, shaking as he considers his damnation to this artificial purgatory, unable to retain memories of those who have truly made him who he is. He might feel human from time to time, but that's just because of the behaviors copied into him. He's ultimately no better off than a Mr. Handy, save for the fact that he has enough cognizance to mourn what he's missing now that he's aware of it.
He remains at the doorway of the headquarters; despite everything, his mind is still on Rey, fixated on the thought of what would happen if they did manage to make a home for themselves after all this, either in Hadriel or elsewhere. She doesn't need to watch him forget like that -- or worse, be forgotten.
Finally, Nick's feet move and he crosses the threshold, heading into this latest memory. His predicament will wait. If there's something they can do, they can figure it out together. No sense in worrying about what trouble may crop up down the road when he doesn't have her back. He hasn't forgotten her yet.
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When the scene plays out, Nick might not be aware of the timeline of this conversation. Outside the windows reveal nothing but an abyss, but that is by no means the focus.
No, it's the blonde sitting at the desk, working on papers. "Oh,̢ ̷hell͞o. I͝ wasn̵'̕t exp̡ect̸i͏ng yo̷u.̷"
It is not Nick that she speaks to, but the Rey passing through him as though he's not there at all. She does not share in the woman's niceties, and instead gets right to the heart of the troubling matter. Any warmth in the woman's demeanor is immediately drained when Rey brings up the weapon, of a man named Hux making an agreement with the Null -- the life of a dissenter for a godkilling weapon. And then the words that Nick had only heard secondhand, now straight from the source:
"H҉e͢'҉ll at̵t̷empt͢ it͘. ͏I̛f̨ he'̴s cleve̕r,̧ h͞ę'll̡ ͠l͏ike̢l̀y҉ ̀su͞cce҉e͠d.͝ B̧ut͟ he knǫws͜ b̵e̴t͜ter t̷h͝a͏n̸ to̧ ta̵r͏ge̛t m҉y ҉Guard̛smèn̡.̧"
Rey spares no delicacy even for the woman she's come to care so deeply for. There are no glitches or pause, no Safronov cutting in with commentary, almost as though she is as much an observer to this for the first time as Nick is.
Very quick does it become clear that the argument is one-sided. While the woman decries the other for 'betrayal', the sentiment is likewise shared with Rey, whose trust in someone she had once considered friend and ally is swiftly shattered. From guaranteeing that the woman's so-called asset of a man be destroyed to denouncing her head position on the Guard, this obviously goes nowhere fast. Rey is unrelenting, and it is none of those things that cut her deeper than what happens after what she so vehemently proclaims:
"Y̛o̴u'͏re ̨t̛ḩe ẃ̵́̕ơ̶͝m͟͏a͏҉n̴̷̛͝҉ ̢̨͜҉̀ţ́͠҉̕h̡́̕͜a̵͜t͏̶̷̴̢ ̵͘I̶͘͢ ̵̢͟͡l̨͡͡͝ǫ̸̶v̴é̀̕,͢͡҉"
Finally, the mirror image of the two women blur. A high-pitched whine, starting out small and insignificant, echoes from the walls of the headquarters. Whether it's stress belonging to the owner of the memory or something else entirely, it's difficult to say. All that Nick can be only a helpless witness to are the sounds of fighting, of Rey restraining the other woman, of yelling and cursing and accusatory cries.
When not even her feelings of affection towards this woman has proven to make any difference, Rey is defeated, but does not give in. Instead, the memory ends with the harsh sound of her butting her head against the woman's, then a thud.
Then static. Silence. No, crying. Someone is crying. But the headquarters distorts. The strain weakens the connection to the memory, and for reasons that are hardly left a mystery.
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It's always been hard for Rey to trust, to love; she's been reluctant to have such feelings for anyone, and with good reason. Her low sense of self-worth aside, she and Nick both feared the resurrection of Love for what it might do to them, for how they would be used. That kind of compassion was a wonderful feeling when it was good, but one that could be equally damning when turned against them through loss or betrayal. They both knew that far too well. Despite the risks, Nick can't deny how he's come to view Rey as a surrogate daughter after all they've been through; she means more to him than he can ever really say, and he knows she feels the same.
It hasn't always been easy though, and Nick has sometimes struggled to reach her. For Rey to admit she felt that strongly for Maketh, and to be cast aside regardless—
Nick grunts, sickened. He could die happier if he never heard about the Empire ever again, was never reminded of they did to Maketh -- and, in turn, did to Rey.
"Maketh Tua," he explains, his body stiffening as he listens to the sobs that resonate in his very mind. He can feel that despair coming across the connection, despite the memory not being one of his own. "She let us all down in those final days... but Rey most of all."
tw: mentions of suicide.
Eventually, Safronov does reply: "I understand."
Does she, really? It's not like Safronov has ever left any impression that she was sentimental, emotional, as susceptible to such weakness.
Truth is, she had been the one who pulled the trigger that ended her own life. She had decided that it was better to remove herself from the equation than to stay and become the GRIGORI Program's puppet. Perhaps it's because the AI has no power here that Safronov has managed to last so long in this city, but there are limits to that and she knows.
She knows what she has to do now.
"Valentine. Next memory is to require more direct influence. You will not be merely watching. Only have one chance at swaying this. Can you do that?"
Rather, is that something he is willing to do? Help to require a memory? She can gauge Valentine to an extent, but he did not appear to be entirely supportive of this endeavor since before Safronov emerged.
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Truthfully, he didn't like Rey's plan to mess with her own memory, and she knew it; however, he also knew she was going to do it anyway, no matter what he thought. He's tried to be supportive, and now, he's just trying to fix things. He only hopes this works, he gets her back, and she never puts herself through this again.. or puts him through it again, for that matter. His heart, manufactured as it may be, couldn't take it.
"All right," Nick says, setting his sharp remarks aside as he starts down the trail once more, his yellow eyes set ahead of him. "Let's do this." Safronov might not think much of it, but they're family. This is what they do for one another, whether they like it or not.
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Only there are no skies. It's the cave again, bearing down the long street riddled with mechanical wreckage. Remains of the synthetic foes fought during the weeks of the Null's full on assault are scattered around the street, as though an entire battalion had swept through here.
Instead, it's only one woman, propped up against the wall farthest back. As Nick follows the trail of trashed synthetics, he will find her in a shop, where a Null had crashed through the front entrance and left a trail of debris in its wake. The woman, however, is alive somehow, despite having taken several heavy blows. An eye is swollen shut and the other bloodshot, gaping wounds cover her body. She's alive, but obviously she shouldn't be.
"Figu҉r̴es,̢" she says through a watery cough. Blood spurts out of her mouth and dribbles down her jaw. Internal damage is just the worst, isn't it? "L͏o̧oks ̛li̴k̀ę.̛.͢. ̷you j̸us͏t ̢a͠b̷óut g҉e͞t t̕o ́ke͞ep ̷your̀ ͏pr͝òm͟i͏s͝e͘ ͘a̡fter a̸l͠l.͜.̶. ̨a͡sshơl̀e."
Who she's talking to, it's hard to say. Her gaze doesn't meet Nick -- rather, it's more like she's looking straight through him.
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Nick glances behind him, expecting there to be a figure, someone she's talking to -- Maketh, if he recalls how this part goes. She showed up, and despite how things had gone regarding her expulsion from the Guard, she called for help. Did she help Rey out of moral obligation? Did she decide the turn against the Null when her plans to acquire a one of their godkillers fell through? Or was there still something between the former lovers in those last moments? As much as Nick and his sentimental sensibilities like to think it's the latter, there's really no telling now. What Maketh ultimately left Rey with was a mess, one she took drastic measures to fix... hence his being here now.
Though he expects someone, Nick doesn't find anyone else there, save for the faint shimmer of where a figure should be. It's there and gone in an instant without a word, or even a definite shape. He turns back to Rey, his eyes narrowing as he quickly puts the pieces together -- direct influence, huh. He's not sure if this will help, but willing to try.
Nick kneels beside Rey's bloodied frame, reaching to support her back, wondering if he's still as intangible as before when it comes to these memories of hers. "Can you hear me, Rey? It's Nick."
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No, Rey is someone who takes that pain in for herself. And it will linger there, festering and rotting away inside of her. That is why they are where they are, where Nick is now.
She is unresponsive at first, even when Nick's hand touches her back. She sits there, collapsed, weak, limp, but her head lifts slightly at the sound of someone's voice.
Through the static haze of the memory, she opens her one good eye.
"N̷ick..̴.͘?͏"
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Setting her hand atop one of her wounds as though it'd help stanch the bloodflow -- it is too far gone for that - he reaches into his pocket, and shockingly does find his phone there, despite this being not much more than the figment of a fractured mind. He doesn't remember who Maketh called; he knows Rey said she got help from someone, but can't remember a name to save his life (or hers) at the moment. It's just a memory, but it feels as though he's really there in that moment, able to make a difference. Maybe it's just real enough for both of them. He has to try.
So he presses his fingers to his phone as though he's messaging someone, then sets it aside and turns his attention back to her, hoping it's enough to fill in the gaps in her mind.
"Talk to me. Don't leave me here."
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With minimal control over the gravity around her, Rey leans in towards Nick, her head tucked against his shoulder. She struggles between pained, shallow breaths as she fights to remain focused on the present. Her vision strains, but what she registers is Nick pulling out his phone. Calling someone.
For whatever reason, she manages to bring a bloody hand to Nick's arm, fingers squeezing at the sleeve.
"Dòn̶'͠t.́.. ́D̨ǫn͘'͝t̵ ͟leàv͟e ͠me̶.̷ ̶Ple͞a͠se̷.͠.̀."
Blood chokes out of the back of her throat when she speaks.
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