Random Access Memory

You lead Raindrop to where you left Naomi's body. Naomi. Sometimes you see a flash of movement and pause, trying not to dare to hope that it is her. But it never is. You pass the unwillingly familiar landmarks: a bare street corner, stones raised to make room for buskers. A temple without a congregation, surrounded by the stench of rotting books. A copper plaque, naming an empty building 'The Gustav Institute of Evidentiality and Natural Sciences.'

Few words are exchanged between you, beyond your directions. You pad softly through the streets, following distant, inhuman noises and spattered blood to a shrine, one of the many to Bausana. This one, though, is a graveyard and a mousetrap, even as it announces its presence with flowers and those chimes.

You stop, far enough that your scent won't carry over their own aroma of death. You can see them inside, bustling like commuters with nowhere to go. You search for the blue of her scrubs, the black of her hair, the white of her eyes but see nothing but red and brown and pink.

Raindrop raises her gun.

“Do you see her?” you ask in hushed tones. There is no response.

The barrel shifts, angling to focus in. You try to follow her gaze along the barrel. Just a glimpse would suffice, just enough to see her again, to remember her, to–

You see a body crumple. See, now, too late, the blue beneath the red. See, again, the horde trampling over her as they surge towards the smoking gun.

You retreat, Raindrop following as they methodically begin to thin the crowd. They recoil with each shot, eyes pleading, jaws wishing they could. You see one, breaking the rhythm in a transverse movement towards you.

Raindrop has tracked her too, and as she parts from the rest of the pack, you see the barrel swing round, the finger begin to tighten on the trigger. The bullet, flinging through the air, honing in to the spot just between her eyes, which widen as she looks to you and you have failed her again as her brain prepares for the bullet.

But it meets your arm first. Burying itself into your flesh before meeting something solid with agonising force. Your arm drops useless to your side, half your vision flickering as you let out a short scream. You shoot a look of desperation at Raindrop, before turning back to the raider.

Though she does not move, you feel summoned. Your feet refuse to shuffle back at first until Raindrop grabs you. And you run.

Once you're far enough away, you pause to dress the wound. Raindrop does not apologise. You can’t help but keep glancing at the make-shift bandage, its rough fabric concealing the image overlaid in your mind of ruined flesh and sparking electronics. There is a constant unpleasant crackling down your right arm, like a constant pins-and-needles.

You wonder if Raindrop met Naomi's eyes. If, there too, there might have been a spark of comprehension. You wish you had been quick enough to see.

Juno has little to show for the days you’ve been gone. A part missing, she says, showing you some scraps she’s tried to put together.

Your first step into the generator room falters as the white noise in your arm intensifies. Even with the hulk of a machine switched off, it seems to draw you, tugging you by the arm. You shrug it off to examine, confirming Juno’s conclusion. Some sort of connector is missing, maybe a transformer?

The store of spare parts has dwindled yet further. With one arm out of action, you spend more time chatting to Juno than much actual mechanic’s work. It’s… nice. To just talk, about the Bastion, or the weather, or a passing comment on prosthetic limbs which turns into an in-depth discussion of their construction.

You try to avoid going too near the generator. Its force seems to grow with proximity. Juno glances at you occasionally, but you do your best to hide any discomfort. Your vision flickers from time to time, your right eye freezing on the last frame before the impact – her eyes, staring into yours. Each time, you see a different expression – fear, love, betrayal, apathy.

The part you stole from the radio tower only intensifies the glitches, fracturing her image into a thousand versions, each with different hair, eyes, skin. Sometimes, before sleep takes you, you try to find her, the real memory, from before your rebirth. Imprinting each version into your eyelids, just in case.

The injury seems to worsen each time you rewrap it, some sort of short-circuit which burns against your flesh, refusing to let it heal. The whining risk of infection, by the contagion or tetanus or gangrene, hisses against your brain and you dream of it – sickly green spreading through your body, taking over until your memories blink out. One. By. One.

It is on the day that Juno has labelled as the ‘final attempt’ that you finally give in to the attraction. Juno is yet to arrive. It usually takes her some extra minutes to limp along. It drags you with ease, meeting no resistance until your knee clanks painfully against the side of the generator.

The bandage falls away and the exposed circuitry is almost humming in anticipation. Gritting your teeth, you reach in and grasp, letting out a slight shriek. A quick wrench, and you are left with a fistful of bloodied metalwork. Before you can react, it drags itself into place, the fluid funneling away down conduits.

Your arm smokes a little, spasming. But the buzzing lessens with each vibration. Juno bursts in and you turn away, knocking into the generator again as you try to explain–

And there is a choking cough. The sound of a motor whirring. And the lights flicker back into life above you.

You push past Juno, the entire right side of your body rebelling. Your right eye flickers one last time before going dark completely. Her afterimage burns through half your vision.

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