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Albedo had conducted hundreds of experiments throughout his centuries of living. Maybe even thousands. He took all of the safety precautions. He did all of the necessary calculations. He did everything right.
So why was Sucrose dead in front of him?
Why was Sucrose’s last expression one of agony and terror? Why were her clothes burnt and tattered? Why was one of her ears shredded, tiny tufts of mint green fur littering the ground beside where it used to be?
Why was she dead?
He did everything right…
Albedo was on his knees, panic seizing him as he desperately shook what used to be Sucrose, knowing his logic was flawed yet not being able to care as he screamed her name, begging her to wake up.
“Wake up!” he howled, his throat raw. He couldn’t cry—wasn’t built to. But he could scream. And scream he did. “Sucrose!”
No response from the rapidly chilling corpse that was his assistant and friend. Her shattered glasses slid off her face, the metal lenses clattering against the floor. The sound rang in Albedo’s ears, but he couldn’t care less. Sucrose was dead. Gone. Never coming back.
They were on Dragonspine. There was no one to call for help. The ground was too stiff with ice to dig a grave, and no fire could burn hot enough to cremate her. Albedo didn’t have enough supplies on hand to make any kind of resting place for her.
Eventually, he laid her down, closing her eyes and neatening up what was left of her. He used one of his few remaining blankets to cover her, since her clothes could no longer do the job.
As he hugged his knees close to him, pointedly not looking at his friend’s corpse (his fault, his fault, his fault), Albedo desperately wished he could cry, even if the tears would freeze on his face.
But just like Sucrose, they wouldn’t move.