He tried not to listen or see or feel anything because it was much easier that way. In some regards, he longed for the cool touch of cryostasis, how it was sometimes used as a reward on him when nothing else would calm him down. There was no returning to cryo though; he couldn't escape what was in that file, what he had become here in this place. A monster. He wasn't even fully human anymore; the arm welded to his flesh was statement enough that he was something else. It was that moment he remembered Schmidt and the words to Stephanie that humanity had been left behind, that they had evolved to something more.
Was he like Schmidt then? Did he crave destruction on some pretense of being something more than he had been born? He didn't know; he wanted to go back to cryostasis and sleep this off. Hell, he might even take the pain of wiping at this point.
He didn't shift under the bed when he heard her come in, and his dark hair fell over his face to mostly blind him. It was his rebellion against the world, blinding himself, wishing he didn't have to hear but stuck here and pinned all the same. He'd cope; she'd take him in, turn a blind eye to aspects of him and things would be okay as long as he wasn't a danger to her, right? Otherwise, maybe the people she knew would simply put him down like a rabid dog, snapping and snarling, terrified as they beat him and ended him. Maybe it was the way it was supposed to be.
"You're allowed to give up on me," he said softly, through his curtain of hair across his face. "I'm not that hero from the Smithsonian; I'm not even the friend you remember me to be. I'm something else, maybe I'm just wearing his face." He hummed softly and turned his head so his face pressed more into the floor. "I won't blame you if you want to walk away."
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Was he like Schmidt then? Did he crave destruction on some pretense of being something more than he had been born? He didn't know; he wanted to go back to cryostasis and sleep this off. Hell, he might even take the pain of wiping at this point.
He didn't shift under the bed when he heard her come in, and his dark hair fell over his face to mostly blind him. It was his rebellion against the world, blinding himself, wishing he didn't have to hear but stuck here and pinned all the same. He'd cope; she'd take him in, turn a blind eye to aspects of him and things would be okay as long as he wasn't a danger to her, right? Otherwise, maybe the people she knew would simply put him down like a rabid dog, snapping and snarling, terrified as they beat him and ended him. Maybe it was the way it was supposed to be.
"You're allowed to give up on me," he said softly, through his curtain of hair across his face. "I'm not that hero from the Smithsonian; I'm not even the friend you remember me to be. I'm something else, maybe I'm just wearing his face." He hummed softly and turned his head so his face pressed more into the floor. "I won't blame you if you want to walk away."