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It's been a few days since her betrayal and the ensuing portal disaster. He should be focusing on pushing their advantage, coordinating attacks—as Force Captain Catra has been so eager to remind him—but that's difficult when his thoughts keep falling back into orbit around her.
Sitting in his sanctum, there are reminders of her everywhere: her tools, her advancements, the very armor he wears. The afterimage of her inhabits this space just as much as he does.
He knows now that he was nothing more than a passing fascination for her, another project set aside to gather dust.
He knows all that he needs to about her treachery, but still he craves answers. The gnawing ache for them bats away any hope of rest.
There's no way of telling how long he's been sitting, unproductive and undisturbed (aside from the occasional prodding from Imp), when the ache finally drives him to move.
Abruptly, he rises, crosses to the door, and steps out into the hallway. His eyes adjust instantaneously from the dim gloom of his sanctum to the harsh glare of corridor, but he pauses just a moment nonetheless.
He swallows and starts down the hall, rounding a corner and accessing the chambers he seeks.
The door reseals behind him, and he stands stock still as he takes in his surroundings. These were the closest she'd had to her own quarters: a space separate from Hordak's sanctum, littered with tools and parts she hadn't needed for working on the portal.
The room still smells of her, for all that she didn't spend that much time in it—not just of the oil and grease she was often smudged with, but of her specifically. This may be the first time someone has entered this place since she left.
A synthesized whirr disturbs the near-silence of powered-but-dormant electronics, and it's followed by metallic footsteps as Emily totters up to him.
He regards the bot, takes in the uncertainty and the question expressed in her movement.
Perhaps he isn't the only project that's been abandoned.
"She left. She isn't coming back," he manages to say. He spares the bot a pat to the top of her round body, but he can't bring himself to acknowledge her ensuing distraught whistle or anxious rocking.
His gaze flits desperately to a nearby crate, seemingly overflowing with miscellaneous electronic parts, and he steps over to it. He picks briefly through its contents, recognizing the sources and functions of several pieces, but finds nothing of interest.
He wanders the room, plucking knickknacks from their resting places and examining the general detritus of her life at the citadel.
Another open box catches his attention and holds it. Here is a collection of slightly more personal objects: a small hoard of rations (divided into tiny portions, individually wrapped) and bottled fizzy drinks (however she managed to find them in the Fright Zone) and a few pieces of clothing.
Most are spare articles of daily attire, left laundered and ready to wear. When he nudges aside the large cold-weather coat she'd worn on her northern expedition, though, he's immediately assaulted with the scent of her skin, of her hair.
He abruptly finds himself clutching the coat to his face and feels ridiculous. The embarrassment fails to stop him from inhaling deeply.
He closes his eyes and for a moment it's as though she's back at his side, ready to casually offer some brilliant insight and ready to burrow her way just a little bit further past his defences.
His eyes open, and he's alone in her room (save for a robot) once more.
There is no insight to be found here, no clue to what she found so compelling about serving the Princess Alliance—found more compelling than the work they'd been doing together, more compelling than him .
He shoves the coat away, stands, and leaves, telling himself that he won't be returning. The door closes on Emily's sad trill of goodbye.
Determined to abandon any behavior that could be construed as wallowing, and to re-establish some sort of productive routine, he retires to his sleeping chambers that evening at a respectable time and gets into bed. Imp appears relieved and satisfied while curling up on his usual cushion.
Despite all efforts to clear his thoughts and keep his eyes closed, sleep does not come. No matter how the bed soothes some of the aches in his body, his mind finds no relief here.
A traitorous thought whispers that he might find a bit of solace elsewhere. The voice in his head sounds like hers. He ignores it.
He stares at the ceiling for another hour before his resolve crumbles.
He rises swiftly and heads straight for the door, Imp raising a bleary head at the disturbance before settling back down.
The corridor is quiet for the brief walk to her former quarters. He doesn't bother to turn on the lights when he enters.
It's quick work to dig out her coat from the box again, and then he's lying curled up with it on the couch which sits facing one of the walls.
He breathes deeply and closes his eyes. Barely audible above the usual hum of equipment, Emily beeps occasionally from the corner.
For the first time in days, he completes an entire cycle of sleep.
He doesn't let that stop him from giving the order to clear out the room the next day.