[ There is pain. There is something wet and oozing and delicate against his fingers that he scrapes against, until there isn't: until there's fingers trapped, bent and crooked and clasped by what writhes around this beast for a body, tightens around each digit, presses in, presses deep. That's where the pain comes from: of muscle and nerves being crushed, being torn into, of someone not opening him up cleanly, but with a dull knife; and then digging their fat thumbs in the wound, letting it take refuge between the folds of his skin, spreading them out, all to smother itself in his blood.
In reality: dropping the stone and opting for his hands was the worst choice for Robby to make. He reaches a point where he's gritted teeth and a noise of death and rage, where sense means nothing to the red that blinds him (the intoxication, too) and the need to save. He doesn't really need to see; and he doesn't actually know if he's doing anything at a point. But he does hear 2B, even if he's at a point where he can't understand what she's saying, only that it's her; and that fact, it makes him deliriously happy, or that's just the pain getting him to that point. Still, he hears her. He hears her.
And then, he might see her. Something quickly shifts, and that would be the body between them dropping, the hardened bits of leeching muscle dropping from him, only the slime of some other bodily liquid remaining. His blood remain. His fingers torn open, the pain, his dizzy vision that can't find focus, or, is it blurry? When did it become blurry?
Ah--when she says his name. That's what doesn't remain: the rage. It's gone, extinguished, leaving behind his trembling hands in the air where they were stuck. He brings them close to his stomach, moving them by his forearms and nothing more, not daring to bend a mangled finger, to let it touch against anything. He walks, shambling with awkward legs that don't remember how to function, but that manage to carry him over; his eyes blinking, his lips crushed together to keep them closed as the noises in his throat vibrate in the space of his mouth, in his breaths.
He comes to a stop before her, and there's tears, silent as they are. Everything isn't quite right, but he sees the silver, the metal where skin should be and isn't, knows what it means and doesn't. There's only what he feels, and no, not his hands.
It's what comes spilling out from a trembling throat, lowly, unreasonable, his face coming close to hers but his eyes down, unable to focus even if he'd want them to: ]
You can't die, none of us can die, we said we'd get out of here-- we need to get help. We need help.
[ It's a plea, it's the wish of a child hoping to bend reality to make it come true. It's a man dying behind them that Robby isn't sure he's ready to look at, what can they do, can they get him to help, does 2B need help, is he going to fail them when they need him the most? And he's never felt so young, so useless and powerless as he does now.
But he knows they need to move on, and he needs to believe in it. That please, this isn't it, they're going to make it, they can, they can. ]
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In reality: dropping the stone and opting for his hands was the worst choice for Robby to make. He reaches a point where he's gritted teeth and a noise of death and rage, where sense means nothing to the red that blinds him (the intoxication, too) and the need to save. He doesn't really need to see; and he doesn't actually know if he's doing anything at a point. But he does hear 2B, even if he's at a point where he can't understand what she's saying, only that it's her; and that fact, it makes him deliriously happy, or that's just the pain getting him to that point. Still, he hears her. He hears her.
And then, he might see her. Something quickly shifts, and that would be the body between them dropping, the hardened bits of leeching muscle dropping from him, only the slime of some other bodily liquid remaining. His blood remain. His fingers torn open, the pain, his dizzy vision that can't find focus, or, is it blurry? When did it become blurry?
Ah--when she says his name. That's what doesn't remain: the rage. It's gone, extinguished, leaving behind his trembling hands in the air where they were stuck. He brings them close to his stomach, moving them by his forearms and nothing more, not daring to bend a mangled finger, to let it touch against anything. He walks, shambling with awkward legs that don't remember how to function, but that manage to carry him over; his eyes blinking, his lips crushed together to keep them closed as the noises in his throat vibrate in the space of his mouth, in his breaths.
He comes to a stop before her, and there's tears, silent as they are. Everything isn't quite right, but he sees the silver, the metal where skin should be and isn't, knows what it means and doesn't. There's only what he feels, and no, not his hands.
It's what comes spilling out from a trembling throat, lowly, unreasonable, his face coming close to hers but his eyes down, unable to focus even if he'd want them to: ]
You can't die, none of us can die, we said we'd get out of here-- we need to get help. We need help.
[ It's a plea, it's the wish of a child hoping to bend reality to make it come true. It's a man dying behind them that Robby isn't sure he's ready to look at, what can they do, can they get him to help, does 2B need help, is he going to fail them when they need him the most? And he's never felt so young, so useless and powerless as he does now.
But he knows they need to move on, and he needs to believe in it. That please, this isn't it, they're going to make it, they can, they can. ]