What is there to fear?

Dinner was quiet except for the clinking of spoons against white, chrome bowls.

Mischa tapped her fingers on the table. What is she able to remember? The last time we saw each other, I never would think it would be this serene if confronted again—but yet it has. She has no concern over her position and hasn't mentioned Dr. Eaton beyond a few times. Doesn't she think they're bound to find her?

"What are you thinking about?" Oktavia stopped slurping her soup, using a napkin to wipe her lips rather than licking them dry as she always had. That was an improvement.

The human hesitated. "Nothing."

"It means something to me if it's bothering you."

There was a time I would have doubted that, wasn't there. "How come you're here, Oktavia?"

"I'm here to recover," she laughed almost as if the question was silly, "and you're helping me with that."

"No, Oktavia, I only helped restart you and dry out some of your wires. You've taken care of yourself quite well—far beyond my capabilities might I add. Don't you think at this point your work will start looking for you?"

"Have you ever considered how much I despise them?"

"Do you now?" There was lilt. "What happened to enjoying the liberty it gave you?"

"Liberty?" Oktavia looked at her, frankly, if she were like a wrapper on the sole of her boot. "That never existed, at least not for me. Dr. Eaton doesn't treat me like an equal, I know he withholds information from me. He lied to me where I was and that was my breaking point. If you clearly think about it, I've only been used as a weapon at their disposal. I am nothing to them, especially not at the prospect of being blown up into smithereens. I serve everything they do—what do I want, hmm? I do not ask for much, yet they just take and take and take."

"So, you're choosing to hide out here?"

"No. I'm here to reconcile something of my emotions. If you want me to leave, Mischa, you could have said so."

The human nearly jumped out of her chair, "No! Stay!"

Oktavia hid her emotions, but the first one that floated in her chest was glee, then yearning. Mischa still cared about her—Mischa might love her.

"Oh? Why do you want me to stay?"

"Believe it or not, I need you here. Please."

A very slow smile transferred on Okta's face. "A far cry from when you used to work with Dr. Eaton. How did you get out of it alive?"

"Let's not talk about that. Let's talk more about yourself—I'd love to hear more of your war stories."

"Mmm. No. I don't feel like it."

"Oktavia, you don't even get tired. Nothing much is a necessity to you, you're just annoyed at me."

"I am going to correct you once. Once," she breathed. "Do not ever assume what I'm feeling."

She swallowed. "Alright—that's fair."

"Good. You know so much about me, I am not sure what I can give you. Why don't you give me something?"

"Well, uh, what do you want?" Mischa stumbled, clearly not expecting Oktavia to want something, or rather, so soon.

"Let's talk more about yourself. How were you able to quit being Dr. Eaton's assistant?"

She didn't know what to say. It was evident Oktavia could not remember the fall out, and it would be precarious to think she could just lament it to her, at least in a sober disposition. It would happen all over again; a repeat, a loop—one that would consume her devastatingly.

One thing that stirred her heart was—

"𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢." 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘢𝘴 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘫𝘰𝘣. "𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘦?"

"𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺—𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘻𝘻𝘺, 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨? 𝘋𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦?"

"𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺."

"𝘋𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢?"

"…𝘜𝘩, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺," 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘺𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘥. "𝘋𝘳. 𝘌𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘴𝘰 𝘐 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧."

𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢 𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘥, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘱. "𝘎𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘐'𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘬𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘺—𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘶𝘱, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘐 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘢𝘺."

"𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢."

"𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘵, 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘸𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?"

"𝘐'𝘮 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘐 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘌𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦."

"𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨."

"𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘬 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐'𝘮 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶," 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘥.

"𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺, 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵."

"𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢—"

"𝘐 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘕𝘰𝘸, 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘭. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯, 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘣 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬."

𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢 𝘳𝘶𝘣𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘸𝘴. 𝘈𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘴, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥, 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘣 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘰𝘭𝘺𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘦 𝘊𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴, 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢'𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘢𝘭𝘭. "𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘦𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘚𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘥𝘫𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘪𝘵." 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥. 𝘈𝘵 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢'𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘭.

"𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳?"

"𝘖𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴—𝘌𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘯'𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘐 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵, 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘦'𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳—𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘔𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳—𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦."

"𝘈𝘭𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵," 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘭𝘴. "𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥?"

"𝘐'𝘥 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘺. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘢 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩-𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦."

𝘒𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬, 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢 𝘴𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥. "𝘈𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸?"

"𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘴," 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭. "𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘺, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭. 𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥. 𝘐 𝘦𝘯𝘷𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵, 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘦."

"𝘉𝘶𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘯. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘥, 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘥—"

"𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵, 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘴. 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘴—𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦, 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢."

"𝘕𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯. 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨?"

"𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵?"

"𝘒𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦."

"𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘥, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘵—𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘐'𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩, 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩." 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦, 𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵. 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘦𝘥, "𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘦? 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘋𝘳. 𝘌𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘶𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺. 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶—𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘦. 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵. 𝘚𝘰, 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦," 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘥, "𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦?"

"𝘐… 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘐 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘰, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘐 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵, 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵. 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘐'𝘮 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵—𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴."

𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘺. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯.

One thing that stirred her heart was Oktavia sitting across from her, brow furrowed at Mischa's silence. "I would advise you to tell me the truth."

The one thing Oktavia taught Mischa that stuck with her was diversion. She took a sip of her water, rolling around the thought in her head. "You know, Oktavia, I wonder how much you remember."

"What I remember… It's not like I have amnesia. It's similar as if my memories had been syndicated and shuffled around by someone else. Violating, if you ask me. I get confused of my purpose, and it makes me dreadful. I know I've been here before, I know when I strangled you, I despised you then—but I don't feel that way now. I am not sure why I would despise you, that is not right. I've seen your face in my glitches, my dreams."

Sobered, Mischa took this all in. It was only time that could tell how much Oktavia would get back. "Maybe you should sleep on it," she soothed, taking ahold of her glass.

"You said I don't feel tired—so why should I bother sleeping again?"

"Isn't that what you do? You want to feel real."

"I look into the mirror glass and all I see is a cruel dream playing in the back of my mind. It's not even myself I see anymore, it's almost a reality shift. I'm not real, Mischa—"

"If only you knew how much more," she paused, searching for the right word, "human you are compared to the doctors that have tested on you, you would be convinced. I quit partially because of that."

"But, you're neglecting to tell me everything. I know that, Mischa. What have you been hiding from me?"

She looked almost sad as she put their dishes in the sink. 'Your memories, Oktavia. That's what I'm hiding.'

"Mischa? Where are you going? Don't walk away from me."

She winced. "Goodnight, Oktavia," was all she was able to say.

* * *

Her mind was racing, and hands were trembling as she lied in her cot. When she closed her eyes, all she could see was her face—Mischa. It waded, it dwelled, it made her sick, it made her… it made her love. Her hearts sped up as she climbed out of the bed, and it was the bathroom mirror that made her taunt her regaled distortions.

Her first mistake fell when her eyes landed on the grey cabinets.

"𝘔𝘺 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯," 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘯, 𝘴𝘩𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯'𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘹𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘺.

"𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴? 𝘋𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘺?"

"𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘺, 𝘪𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘯𝘰? 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵."

"𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘢𝘺, 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢." 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢 𝘴𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯. "𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺?"

"𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬. 𝘐 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘴𝘦𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘥."

"𝘖𝘩? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬?" "𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨—𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰—𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶!"

𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘤 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘺, 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘮—𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘨𝘰 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘢 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘧𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯, 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘸. 𝘈 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳.

"𝘋𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵, 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢?" "𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵—𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵—𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴?" 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩. 𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦, 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘤'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘪𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘳, 𝘋𝘳. 𝘙𝘰𝘭𝘬. 𝘌𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤.

"𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨," 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘥, 𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘹𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘴𝘦. 𝘐𝘵𝘴 𝘫𝘢𝘸𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴, 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘭, 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩. 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘢'𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯.

"𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳?" 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘖𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘢.

"𝘚𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴."

"I can't even try to find you," she pressed her hands against the glass. "I can't even know you more than a repetitive flash, a common whim of knowledge—but I don't trust what I see." She was rooted in her non-existence, her presence lingering in the halls until she turned back to the white sheets.

Perhaps if she shut her eyes, she could program another scene, another dreamscape away from here—it was all out of her control either way, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw Mischa in different colors like tetras.

Similarly, all Mischa could focus on was Oktavia.

AI was fragmented—could they even recognize themselves in the mirror? She treaded on heels with Oktavia because of her own instabilities and incapability in the emotional armor she was built around in.

Could she trust herself? It's almost as if the bionic was willing to do the same. After much devastation, was this the life for her anymore? Was she programmed in their design? Some years she wished she didn't have to think of her, others it was watching and waiting in anticipation and excitement if she would ever come back. The choice had already been made, her mind could stop squeezing out the excess in possibilities—for that was all she had left.

She teetered between life and death by doing this—by trying to trigger Oktavia's memories. Cutting the carrots, bringing up the liberty Oktavia once felt, reminding her of the past. But, she kept it covert all the same—not wanting to push or pry until Oktavia could come to her own conclusion of what happened with their past.

Oh god, the past.

In her dark moment, her hand trembled and flitted towards her zipper.