ragged breaths pour out of you as you scrub your hands clean of the crimson liquid which stains your hands and your very soul. it was brutal and beautiful—the colour and how the red strands swirled around as it united before falling down the sink pipe.
you blink and clench your hands. the very hands which so effortlessly carved up the heart from inside the man laying on your rough ‘operating table’. you are terrible, yes. there was no other word to describe you. a vigilante, maybe? but did it even matter when there is a part of you which feels the thrill of the killings and torture that you so cunningly come up with no mercy?
no, actually, there are other words to describe you. heartless, being one of them. the irony of that when you quite literally removed someone’s heart recently is not lost on you.
rotten. sadistic. torturous. depraved. murderer.
it was how you revelled in the pain you caused others; how you can’t stop the excitement spreading across your body when you see the utter terror in their eyes; how you sometimes let them have a moment of freedom, just to tear it all away at once and see as hopelessness encompasses every cell of their body. the scalpel that you used in carving the man’s heart probably possessed more sympathy than you did.
you are not the same, the voice taunts you. you are not the same person who cried over the dead raven for night’s on end. you can’t even recognise yourself. you are twisted and depraved and oh-so sick in the head. you are broken in ways you don’t even know.
you try to deny it at first, try to resist with every shaky breath that you do this for the greater good. but you know, deep down, you know that this is what you are: a monster masquerading as a human. you have as much heart as the corpse on your operating table with the empty chest.
you try to find some semblance of yourself on the broken pieces of the vanity mirror scattered around you. but you can truly see your twisted visage on the abnormal reflections. it was as if a sculptor had chipped away at you to add all the cruelty of the world and none of its gentleness.
you were made of jagged edges and sharp thorns. made to admire, not to love.
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The day androids got taken away for deactivation, hundreds of kids with household androids cried themselves to sleep, mourning a family member.
They got attached. Hank too got attached.
Before today, he thought of the revolution as an overall positive event - something worth celebrating, or something he celebrated, at least. For him it symbolised change, a beginning of something better. It was only now that the true scale of the tragedy caught up with him, making him aware of how many android lives it actually cost. Only now it clicked with him how many of them were still mourned, and how, of all people, it was mostly kids who truly missed them.
Throughout December, he saw the memorials with old broken smartphones lined up in tight rows and columns, each for one killed android whose life was meaningful enough for someone to honour it with flowers and candles. And back then, he could never understand why were those flowers so crappy-looking and messy, mostly artificial or folded out of paper as origami. He used to wonder if it was another part of a symbolism - "artificial flowers for artificial people". Now it was obvious that the reason for that was much simpler: it was mostly kids who brought them. Most of them had no means to bring real flowers, so they folded them out of paper.
For the first time, Hank felt embarrassed for never having contributed anything to that memorial when it was still around. He should have brought some flowers, the real ones. Maybe he could even succeed in finding his old smartphone with dead battery and use it as a part of the memorial – if not for someone he personally knew, maybe for some of the deviants he saw last November, perhaps the one who killed himself in a holding cell. He didn't *know* him, didn't even consider him to be a person then, which, however, doesn't mean he could ever forget about him or his case. Arguably, he was the only person who kept thinking about him almost daily months after he died.
Hank didn't lose any close friends or family members the way others did that last November, though. The android he cared most about was still alive, now sitting right beside him on a passenger seat, waiting for Hank to start the engine, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt. Hank noticed him always fiddling with something, be it a small object or his own clothes that he kept adjusting even if it was perfectly fine the way it was before. He would rub his palms together as if struggling to keep them warm or other times he'd tap the table or other surface he had around with his fingers in some irregular rhythmic patterns that Hank sometimes wondered was originated from some songs he happened to hear, maybe even among those Hank played in his presence himself.
Fiddling was one of those things Connor always did, even before turning deviant. Something so human yet small enough to be completely ignored, or, like in Hank's case, only think of it as something, android did to annoy him personally. How come he never gave it a second thought back then, never wondered why those completely pointless actions were even there? Would it change anything if he did? Would it provided him with enough evidence to answer his question before he had a chance to ask it with a gun? He wished the answers to all those questions were 'yes', and yet it was only now, months later that he actually paid attention to Connor doing any of that and questioned why. Why did he fail to see the significance of it earlier?
As he pondered that, Connor crossed his hands over his chest, deep in thought, while his fingers tapped out a rhythm on his left sleeve. Was he even aware of doing that?
Suddenly Hank felt the urge to touch him. Confirm his presence, and remind him of his own. It took a conscious effort to suppress that urge. Instead Hank cleared his throat and said.
"I remember when kids wanted to become pop stars or video bloggers. Never occurred to me that some kids today might want to be androids."
Connor stopped the tapping and eyed him.
"What do you think?"
"I don't know... It's just weird. That's all."
Connor shifted in his seat, turning to face Hank.
"Who did you want to become?" he asked, "As a kid."
"Not a police lieutenant, that's for sure."
"That's not the answer to the question I asked."
"And you're gonna make it my problem."
Hank could almost feel being scanned as android tilted his head slightly.
"Am I bothering you?"
"Always."
Connor grinned at him, and Hank felt the corners of his own mouth rising as well at the sight.
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nemona's sync pair story in pokemon masters ex can be viewed anytime as soon as you recruit her, and in just a couple minutes of dialogue we scarlet/violet story analyzers get some great subtext-made-text and new subtext:
confirmation of one instance of nemona working herself really hard for the sake of others and seeing anything less as a display of her own weakness and letting them down (even if the others are her pokemon in this case). it's something that i thought always seemed likely to be a theme with her if we knew more about her, with stuff like her mostly un-commented-on arm brace / compression glove and perfectly clean room nearly devoid of personality outside of her meticulous schedule and displays of her achievements, and what that implied about her relationship with her family, teachers, and idol
recontextualization of why she wears sporty athletic wear and runs around everywhere, even though she's a straight-A nerd who has to take a break every 50 feet when she initially takes you to school and is still winded enough to be worthy of comment from arven by the time you're running around in area zero
the fact that penny, the otaku shut-in, did not get called out like this means either she performed exactly as arven expected her to based on how she looked, or that nemona was doing the worst out of all of the group and might actually have some kind of chronic condition / disability like some fans theorize. nemona's stamina now being revealed to be a long standing insecurity of hers despite shrugging it off with a joke in area zero implies the latter to me
if she shrugged off a long standing insecurity with a joke, that could potentially say a lot about any other things she didn't want to make a big deal about that fans are a little suspicious of, like saying her parents were "hands-off in a good way" with her while her sister got all the attention, which i definitely think was an deflective understatement or simply not realizing there's a problem
and if her low stamina and "bad throwing" are in fact due to some kind of condition and mostly out of her control, that also makes her calling herself weak that much more tragically unfair to herself. someone hug this kid please
i trust these folks to write a compelling nemona if they were given the chance to, not just a fun and cute one. they get it.
her 15 minute storyline from her debut event is mostly just good fun with her meeting a bunch of people and almost winning a big tournament with her new friends hilda and bede. it also, however, touches upon how sad she is that people mostly get jealous of her rather than feel inspired by her (which she actually comes up with a motivational speech to try and combat this time, with hilda's help). it even has her tell blue and bede that florian/juliana back home is "a precious treasure" to her, which made me melt into boiling taffy.
now i'm looking forward to whatever else they come up with when nemona's more plot-driving friends arrive. despite how cheesy and hit-or-miss pokemon masters tends to be, they're treating scarlet/violet with respect so far. it's canon to me. i kinda need that right now when we're not sure what the friend trio are gonna get in the DLC of the actual game.
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