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He slammed the doors open, heart pounding as he raced down the hallway. His gun was gripped tightly in one hand, Herm cradled gently to his chest with the other.
He skidded around a corner and nearly fell right into her.
Michelle.
The teenager who’d won all their hearts with her bold determination and, frankly, impressive loyalty.
She had bowed her head, fingers grasping at her shirt. P.C flitted his claws anxiously nearby, his artificial eyebrows taut with worry and empathy.
No Christopher to be seen.
Somehow he just knew.
“Kid,” Keats breathed, unable to say her name in this moment of vulnerability.
Herm’s hand twitched around his grip on Keats’ sleeve. He shook his head solemnly, “oh, kid, I’m sorry.”
Her shoulders hunched but she made no move to look up.
Keats pressed his lips together, glancing out the window. Outside the cracked glass, the battlefield lay near silent, the only movement being their— dare he think it, friends, as they pick through the remains of what’s left.
And that’s what they were, weren’t they? In the matter of three days, less than that, even, Keats and Herman went from having only each other to having tens of allies.
And he hasn’t been happier.
Well.
“Michelle,” he said.
She looked up. Tears tracks were drying on her puffy face, but she wasn’t crying. Her eyes shone brighter than he’d ever seen them and her shoulders seemed lighter than he figured they’d been in a long time.
"Well, kid?" Keats offered her a kind smile. “What do we do next?”
Her eyes sharpened. “We rebuild.”
There were things left unsaid, there were things — people, robots — that would never see the light of day again, conversations to still be had, but it was okay. Because they’d mourn and they would rebuild.
Together.