They all think you worth it.

Fusco, Harold, TM, even Bear, they all think you are a great agent, and you will carry on. At first, yes, you finished your first task perfectly as always after TM’s call. Then, next task, then, third task.


You are not alone, there are some people like you out there.

You are making the world better. Your anxiety and insecurity declined. Your anger let out. For others, they only need a popcorn movie to get rid of this, to deal with their “feelings”. They don’t need violence, but you do.


You need violence, alcohol, orders,tasks, like you need oxygen. As they think, you finished your tasks, till now, it’s been two or three months. You are finished today. That’s why you now sit on the steps before your damn apartment, holding a bottle of whiskey and letting cold wind hurting your neck.


You can’t take it anymore, any longer.

It’s not because the warm orange light across the street, or the brown hair of this time’s poi. It’s not because the Machine keep silent, not using her voice. No, you’ve adopted to all of those things, you don’t quit for trifle.


But there are stars above you. And you remember it, for you’ve seen it in her eyes when she caught you and threatened you to come back to her with her own fucking life. You know you are being silly, you can’t see stars in people’s eyes, it's actually her tears. You knew it. But you’d like to think, stars were in her wide-opened eyes.


You don’t do romance. You scored poetry and literature, but you are poor at describing things, things like your own feelings --- you just don’t do that, that’s just not you. So, when you said goodbye to the pile of wires, you were not saying goodbye. You just slipped, due to tiresome. You needed to get Bear from Fusco, revenged for her, and drank all your whiskey down the throat.


The machine called you.

How dared it call you? When she cannot?


You finished your mission instinctively, with the courage that you felt while 99.6% of her was speaking to you.


But you can’t do it anymore.

Not without real Root.


And she is not speaking. Never.


You looked for stars, and the light burned your eyes. The stars already died a million years, but you can see them. 


Back to that day, in the park, she didn’t say much, even when you slept in her bed. Yes, she talked too much, and never in the right time. But, she was quiet, with you, in the dark, during that time.


She didn’t have words for you, and you didn’t as well. You didn’t tell each other all the things, but you knew she was burning her life to get to you, and she knew you suffered, a lot. You just didn’t have enough time.


You couldn’t show each other the wound, then heal it, with her witty dorky words and your eager kisses. No, you didn’t have time for that. You all need scars to seal your pain, blood and scream up. So that you could save the goddamn world. After, maybe, just maybe, you all survive, and you would have time for that, for future.


That maybe was gone. 

For she was gone, for good.


You actually liked bear’s companion more, and you can find her scent in the lipstick you stole. The beverage you shared, can’t turn sweeter or sourer.


Yet you need her.

You swear, you had enough whiskey, you had enough violence, you had enough missions.


Yet you need her.

Not just her voice, her 99.6% voice. You need her, to appear. Even if she is as white as sheet, smells like corpse, or she wants to bite you to death. You will not resist, not for a second.


It’s like the time you met Thomas.

You were horny, for Root’s been doing her fucking missions forever. You didn’t sleep with anyone like forever too. You needed it, you needed sex, you needed someone to kiss you and fuck you senseless.


But you didn’t go to Thomas. You went to Root. And Root gave you a whole night. She pushed you against walls. She kissed you. She fucked you. She bit your ears and your neck, like the chilling wind. She tortured you, hard. She stuck pain and herself into your butt.


You totally need that, at this very moment.

Your whiskey is out, you smash the bottle and use the broken pieces to cut yourself. You are a fucking doctor, you know what you are doing, you are not committing suicide. It’s just going to be a fucking scar.


You scar yourself with the mark of 4AF.

You probably drink too much. You slumber into yourapartment. You lie down. "Sense and sensibility" under your pillow is just a pain in the ass. As always. You pull it out, not reading, but flipping. You may rip it a little, but that’s fine, for you are a destroyer, not a keeper.


You see a drawing. To be exact, it’s a strip, on some pages. Mobius strip. You know that’s Root. That’s her writing. Her scent is all over it. You touch it and ask the Machine. It speaks nonsense, except for one sentence.


“Harry proposed to Grace with the same book. It could be a bad drawing of a ring, Sameen.”


They are all wrong.

You are not worth it.

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