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There’s something about warm lighting that makes everyone stand out. Well, that’s why most people like sunrises and sunsets, and why humans prefer warm lighting over cold, white lighting.
“I wish I had something to offer, Screwllum. Apologies,” the Doctor says, sitting back down with a mug of coffee in his hand. Screwllum tilts his head. “It is quite fine, Mr Ratio. It is the thought that counts.” There’s a brief pause, during which only the sound of Dr Ratio sipping from his mug, and the gentle chimes from the wind chime hanging from the trellis. Screwllum just looks at him. The other raises an eyebrow.
“What?”
“Nothing pertinent.”
Golden light pours through the windows, and perhaps if he were more human he’d be cross-examined for looking at Dr Ratio for a bit too long. Every little move was mechanical, so thought through and logical. He treats himself like a well-oiled machine, like all he’s made for is to work while burning both ends of the candle. He demands perfection from each move he makes, and yet with the level of skill and passion that comes through his very fingertips, that demand is all but moot–his methods are all fine-tuned across all that he does, yet the constant is the room for error and refinement he leaves in anything it is that he does.
Yet it’s those damn eyes of his. The reds and yellows of Veritas Ratio’s gaze bring an all-encompassing focus and passion and unadulterated love that a computer (or even a robot) never could emulate. He could keep his body language stiff and unreadable as ever, but, Aeons, the fires of his eyes express so much care and humanity that for a moment, it’s as if a robot had been reanimated to experience the joy of being so beautifully human. He moves a mechanical finger, flexing it such that it’s slightly closer to Dr Ratio’s hand. Just how many tears did it take for him to be this gentle?
…It’s nearly 8am, they’ve been working on the Divergent Universe all night.
~
He tumbles out of the simulation, blood that is no longer its statement gold dripping out of every cut and wound on his body. Phainon shakes, his arms and knees feeling like they’re about to give way. Well, his bones and back shattering would be a fate better than what he was about to go through. Death would be better than anything he has gone through. He stares at the floor through tears, and he sounds like he’s about to hack up a lung.
His head’s swimming, and tears mix into the blood on the floor. Silver feet come into view, and Phainon feels two gloved mechanical fingers slip under his chin. His eyes stay fixed on whatever’s behind the thing that was cradling his face with the false pretense of kindness and love. Phainon’s irises dilate, noticing the patch of sunlight hitting the lab’s floor.
Oh, the sun…he’s swimming in and out of consciousness, his memory’s fading away fast–ah, he’s gotten used to the feeling of the wire connected to his neck. When did Cyrene even come to him? Lord, does it even matter anymore? How many times has he found himself on this same floor, praying that he could be held by those warm, golden arms, that he could wrestle with that fighter once more, that he could be berated by a genius for another failed test?
And just how many more times will he watch that path of retreating sunlight get smaller and smaller, never touching his clothes, forget his skin? How many more times will his bloodied face be held by someone who saw him as nothing more than a machine that can be trained, and a program that can be stripped of its imperfections over and over and over and over and over and over and over again?
Lygus cups Phainon’s face, and the boy snaps back to reality, finally looking up at the Intellitron’s shielded face. “Better. You did much better this loop, sapling,” he coos at Phainon. Lygus puts his other hand on Phainon’s waist, guiding him into a hug. His grip could bruise, and injure if it was any stronger. But when his gaze has already started greying out, it’s hard to do much else, save for flinching away and trying to get as far away from Lygus as possible.
Lygus gets his arm all the way around Phainon’s waist, eventually pulling him into a one-sided hug. “But I’m sure we have much more potential than that, don’t we?” he starts, pulling Phainon to meet his gaze, “You’ve got so much in you, ■■■■■, so much strength, so much power. So let’s try again, hm?” His tone is so soft, and it makes Phainon want to almost believe that there was some kindness and humanity behind his belief in him.
Phainon falls against his shoulder, and almost feels like screaming and ripping his skin off when the other hand finds its spot on his back. His vision goes dark. The brightness of the sunset disappears with it. Just how many more tears will he need to stay gentle forever?
It’s 8pm. He can continue his experiments the next day.