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The snap is barely audible.
Not the sharp pop of a blown bulb, or the hum of a surge pushing past tolerance. It’s subtle; like the sigh of a circuit under too much strain, folding inward instead of exploding.
But Eddie hears it.
He’s drying the last of the glasses behind the Breaker Box bar. Volt’s halfway into his jacket, the club long emptied of guests save the dim echo of music still crackling from a speaker that never quite shuts off. It’s late. Far past closing. But none of them really sleep, not the way people do.
“That wasn’t one of mine,” Volt says, stilling.
Eddie sets the glass down slowly. “Where's Curran?”
They find Curran in the control room, crumpled between the main power conduits and the server rack.
He’s not unconscious. Just… gone.
One leg is detached at the thigh, hanging crooked from the hinge. His forearm display is blank, blinking like it’s lost its sync. His neck brace whirs and stutters like it’s trying to reset but can't quite remember how.
His eyes are wide. Not blinking. Not seeing.
Volt takes one look and stops dead in the doorway. His hand twitches toward Curran and freezes.
“I didn’t—” he starts, breath shaky. “I wasn’t even near him—”
“I know,” Eddie says gently. “Don’t get closer.”
Volt flinches like he’s been told off, but stays where he is. His electricity hums in his veins, too unpredictable, too dangerous in this moment.
He’s scared to get too close. One jolt, even accidental, could cascade through Curran’s already-fractured system. When someone as sensitive as Curran short-circuits, too much anything could make it worse. So Volt stands there, static humming quietly at his fingertips, aching to reach out and knowing he can’t.
Eddie crouches down slowly, familiar in this position. Curran’s system doesn’t always fail like this, but when it does... it doesn’t warn them.
“Curran?” he says, voice calm and warm, the way he always says it. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”
Curran doesn’t move.
Eddie looks at the detached leg first, inspecting the magnetic joint from where he is. Not fused. Not burned. Just disconnected. Maybe a signal loss. Maybe a self-preserving fail-safe. He risks reaching out to grab it and make sure his initial thoughts were correct.
But then Curran gasps.
It’s not a breath. It’s not speech. It’s a sound— guttural and wrong and scared. His hands spasm, fingers curling against nothing. His chest heaves once, then again.
A strangled, panicked sound escaped Curran’s throat.
“Please,” Curran whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t take me apart. Please… not again.”
Eddie froze, hand hovering. He reached out slowly, laying fingers lightly on Curran’s other knee. “Hey. I’m not taking you apart. I would never do that to you.”
Curran’s breath hitched, body stiffening as the fear rippled through him.
Eddie kept his voice low, steady. “I’m just going to check your leg now— gently. I’m looking for any damage that could hurt you later, things you can’t feel right now but I can. I’ll tell you every step. You’re in control, okay?”
Curran’s fingers curled weakly into the floor, but his eyes didn’t close. “Okay…”
His eyes briefly flickered with terror as Eddie’s fingers brushed the magnetic joint. His body tensed, muscles pulling tight as if to resist.
“It’s okay,” Eddie whispered. "You're okay."
Eddie’s hands moved with practiced precision, examining the thigh joint, brushing over the sleek metal, checking for cracks or misalignments. “No burns here, no fractures. Just a loose connection. You’re stronger than you think.”
Curran’s breath hitched, tears threatening to spill as Eddie’s touch lingered, soothing, meticulous.
“I—I don’t know where I am,” he whispers finally. “Why don’t I remember—? I don’t—I don’t know who I am.”
Volt lets out a strangled noise from behind Eddie. His whole body is tensed like it’s taking everything in him not to run to Curran’s side.
“You’re with us,” Eddie says firmly, shifting to support Curran’s weight. “You’re at the Breaker Box. You’re Curran. You’re the fuse that keeps this place up and running.”
“I don’t feel like... that,” Curran says, voice raw. “I feel— wrong. Like I’ve already been replaced and no one told me.”
“You haven’t,” Eddie says.
“I— I don’t remember anything— how can you know I’m still me?”
Volt breaks. “Because you hum during system tests,” he blurts. “You hate the high-pitched calibration tone, so you hum over it. Off-key. Every single time.”
Curran sways slightly, eyes looking up, confused.
Eddie adds, gently, “You rearrange the club stools at night. Even if I already set them. You make them crooked on purpose.”
“And you fold your notes into those weird little triangle shapes,” Volt continues, still keeping his distance. “Even when they’re reminders for us, you fold them all the same. Like you think we won’t notice.”
“I didn’t know I did that,” Curran mumbles, dazed.
“You do,” Eddie says. “And it’s always on pink sticky notes. Always.”
Curran’s fingers twitch like he’s trying to grasp those memories but keeps missing.
“I wrote things down,” he murmurs. “Just in case... in case I lost myself again.”
Eddie’s gaze darkens, but with grief, not anger. “Where?”
“In the drawer by the DJ cables,” Curran says faintly, "I think..."
Volt practically vanishes and reappears with the notebook in seconds. It’s small, crammed with entries. Not coherent thoughts— just fragments. Things like:
Volt always says “live wire” when I’m sad.
Eddie likes his drinks stirred clockwise.
I laughed last Tuesday.
I think they still want me here.
The pages tremble in Volt’s hands. Eddie just closes his eyes for a second.
“You kept track of us,” Volt says, voice breaking. “Even when you couldn’t trust yourself.”
“Because I didn’t want to forget,” Curran says. “Because if I forgot you, I’d really be gone.”
“You’re not gone,” Eddie says. “You’re just scattered. That’s different.”
Curran starts to cry, but not dramatically. Quiet, afraid tears.
“What if this time is worse?” he whispers. “What if I don’t come back?”
“Then we’ll come get you,” Volt says.
Eddie nods, gently easing Curran back into a sitting position and beginning to reconnect the leg prosthetic. “Like we’re doing now.”
Volt kneels a little closer, careful to stay grounded. “Hey. You used to say you hated my shows.”
“I did?”
Volt smiles softly. “Yeah. Said the bass was too flashy. But you rewired the lighting rig anyway to follow the beat.”
“That sounds like me,” Curran says, voice thin.
“It is you.”
Eddie adjusts the neck brace gently. “Every time you bust a fuse, you think it’s the end. And every time, you come back a little stronger.”
“I want to believe that.”
Volt hums the chorus of Curran’s least favourite (secretly favourite) song again. Curran’s lips twitch in time.
He lets his head fall against Eddie’s shoulder, still trembling, still afraid, but held.
“You remember when I taught you how to bartend?” Eddie murmured, easing his hand along Curran's shoulder, holding him close. “How you always got the cherry-lime soda orders wrong because you insisted it was ‘too sweet’? You hated that drink, but you kept asking for it anyway.”
Curran’s lip twitched, a small, shaky smile breaking through his fear.
“And Volt— he taught you to slow dance with him, remember? You kept stepping on his feet, but he never got mad. Said it made the whole club feel alive. You smiled that rare, genuine smile then. I saw it.”
“You both remembered more of me than I did,” he says.
“Then let us continue to carry the rest,” Eddie murmurs.
“We won’t let you flicker out,” Volt adds. “You don’t need to hold everything alone.”
“I feel like a burden.”
“You’re what keeps us stable,” Eddie says. “We focus on keeping the lights on in this damn house.”
Volt finally reaches out, intertwining his hand into Curran's open palm. Current low enough to not cause a spark. Just the lingering warmth beneath his skin.
“I didn’t want to break,” Curran says again.
“You didn’t,” Eddie tells him. “You cracked. We caught you before it was too late, and we'll do it every time.”
The Breaker Box is quiet. The lights hum low and warm, surrounding the trio in soft amber glow.
Curran is still. Breathing slowly. Grounded by the ones who know him. Who see him.
Even when he forgets.