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Twelve years, eleven months, thirteen days, sixteen hours and counting, since being first activated.
Thrown into the high perch of the containment cell, back broken, unable to do much than turn his head and make some feeble attempts of moving his hands, there wasn’t much Kirsh could do but to pay attention to his internal clock.
It was always weird, when he had time to ponder that time. The first few years had involved being a researcher synthetic at a medical company, developing treatments and vaccines for whatever new virus or bacteria causing trouble, the company later bought by Prodigy. It was still under Prodigy’s wings, the fellow researchers still working, but he had become Kavalier’s newest shining toy, at least for a few years.
It was ponder that or pay attention to Kavalier’s humming interspersed with almost crazy laughs, or to Morrow’s frown, or to the children hybrids comings and goings. From the three options, the children hybrids were the most interesting, and even still, after how they had thrown him in with the others, a small part of him felt petty at being judged as deserving of the same fate. He was a synthetic, programmed to resemble humans, true, but the occasional very human feeling always caught him by surprise.
He blinked, the too bright lights overhead not bothering his artificial eyes.
They made him remember your smile, always bright and beaming, as the other humans around had put at the time. Kirsh had found the comparison curious, able to see the metaphorical effect: the other researchers behaved lighter, in a way, when you were present, his scans indicating less stress overall, the work progressing better.
Twelve years, nine months, ten days, seven hours and counting, since the first time he had purposefully approached you for something other than the vaccine research going on in the lab at the moment, because of sheer curiosity.
It hadn’t taken long for Kirsh to understand that it was because of a mix of your overall good humor – your stupid puns, your laugh at his dry sarcasm and wit –, and your perspective on life: he had never saw you complain excessively when something went wrong in the lab. Only a sigh, a brief curse, cleaning up if needed, and back you went to the planning. No blaming of the others, nothing, just accepting that things had gone wrong and dealing with the consequences.
At the time he was still young, and hadn’t been able to stop himself from asking.
You had only said that it was how life was. Mistakes, things going wrong no matter what, they would always happen. Dwell on them and complain would just make you lose time that could have been used to fix what you could.
What would you say to how wrong things had gone all over Neverland if you were still around?
Silly, he didn’t need to wonder.
“Where do you think things went wrong? What’s in your power and capacities to change and fix? What can’t be fixed and has to be dealt as it is?”
The recording of your voice echoed inside his systems, and there was a faint frowning at his eyebrows. Kirsh was always struck by the weakness and peacefulness in your voice in that recording.
It was as if half of him expected, against everything, that that recording would be like the others, your voice strong and bright.
But it wasn’t.
Eleven years, nine months, twenty days, five hours and counting, since there had been an outbreak of the virus you, him and the others were researching in your habitational facility. Since you had jumped in to help with the triage and organization and evacuation, no protective gear.
There was no effective treatment of vaccine yet. Antivirals in the first few hours could help it not setting, but once the symptoms appeared, just care for the person, try to boost their immune systems, and hope they would survive it.
The numbers of survival weren’t gentle.
You knew all that, you were just human, and still hadn’t hesitated to jump in to put yourself in the line of infection. You had put on all the protective gear needed after the first responders arrived, but they all knew it was to keep you from transmitting the virus to others: you had already had contact with it.
He had tried to convince you to let the rest for the doctors and rescue, to step into a hospital and rest and do the antiviral treatment and hope it would be enough.
You denied. Said you knew those people, knew how to calm them and make sure they wouldn’t cause trouble just because they were scared. That you trusted him and the other researchers to keep trying in the lab. Your only concession had been to take a dose of antivirals that both you and him knew hardly would be enough.
Kirsh blinked again, a hand flexing without clear order. He had lost too much cooling and lubricant fluids.
Eleven years, nine months, seventeen days, ten hours and counting, since the habitational facility had been totally evacuated, humans categorized by level of contact with virus and if symptoms appeared or not.
Eleven years, nine months, seventeen days, nine hours, thirty minutes and counting, since he had stopped by to accompany you to an hospital to be screened.
He had been… Hopeful, as hopeful as a synthetic could be. Three days, and you hadn’t have any symptom yet. Maybe the antiviral you had taken had indeed been enough, and you would get out alive of that after all.
Eleven years, nine months, seventeen days, nine hours, twenty-three minutes since and counting, since you had been laughing at his latest quip, still in protective gear as he accompanied you to the medical vehicle, and started to tip forward, laugh dying.
Eleven years, nine months, seventeen days, nine hours, twenty-two minutes, forty seconds and counting, since he had managed to take hold of you before you hit the ground.
Kirsh still remembered exactly your weight in his arms that moment, the cold calculations telling him you had lost weight, your tired “oops”, the way your hands and feet went into spasms as he took you wordlessly into the vehicle. He had helped the doctors strap you in for the transport, frowning at you as one protected doctor took off the upper part of you gear.
You had still been smiling, even if clearly embarrassed.
He blinked again, the frown worsening in his face. Your pupils had been uneven, one dilated, the other pinprick, sweat sliding down your body, shivers making your hairs stand on edge.
Kirsh had been studying that virus for months, and he knew those weren’t the first symptoms, and he had felt… Hurt, as much as could, over the fact that you had hidden how advanced your situation was.
If anyone asked Kirsh, he would be able to relay exactly the following three days: how you had been taken into the intensive units, together with others, how the other researches had had no problem telling him to keep you company because he was the only one that could, he had wanted to but would never dare voice such and the permission had been, admittedly, a relief, the sterilizing showers every time he arrived and left, the fervor in the lab as the others tried to come up with something faster, something that would keep one of them alive.
“Where do you think things went wrong? What’s in your power and capacities to change and fix? What can’t be fixed and has to be dealt as it is?”
Eleven years, nine months, ten days, twenty hours, forty minutes, and counting, since you had said those words, after he finally confronted you over the omission.
Kirsh recovered the visual memory: the sclera in your eyes bloodshot, eyes unable to focus because the muscles in the iris had teared at the constant spamming, your body sagging in the medical bed, only the medicine dripping into your veins keeping your heart from going into violent arrhythmia.
“Are you that gone to start being philosophical?” The dry words didn’t cut the same as always, weren’t even funny, but you still smiled.
“It’s an actual question.” You had managed with a trembling voice, hand twisting slowly into an unspoken request to be held.
It had been easy for Kirsh to do it at that moment, hold your hand while still standing straight close to your sick bed. It was easy in that moment to trigger the recorded memory of your clammy fingers, the strength that came and went, the spasms in your muscles under the skin.
It hadn’t been the first time Kirsh had held your hand, and once he had felt the temptation of exchanging the recording for one more pleasant, but that would be a disservice to you and what you had done.
“It went wrong because you didn’t accept to be treated.”
“True.” You agreed, no heat, smile still there.
“We can still create a vaccine and an effective treatment.”
“We were close.” You managed a small nod.
He had remained in silence, your unfocused eyes trying to find him, face turned, fingers in spasms in his grip.
“… I can’t fix you.” Kirsh still could remember how he felt as he spoke the words aloud: a faint acceptance, a faint hurt, a faint already missing your laugh and perspective on human life.
“No, you can’t.” a firm, deliberate grip of his fingers, thumb purposefully caressing the back of his hand, enough to make him frown as your eyes blinked. “I’m sorry we didn’t have more time.”
“… I’m sorry for that too.”
You died two hours later.
Eleven years, nine months, ten days, eighteen hours, thirty minutes, and counting, since your last breath and heartbeat. He ignored the part of the memory that displayed your pain as it happened.
Eleven years, nine months, ten days, eighteen hours, twenty-nine minutes, and counting, since Kirsh had allowed himself the old wish and curiosity to kiss the back of your hand as he had never allowed himself before.
Every time he allowed that memory to play, he still felt the phantom tingle of your skin on his lips. On a logical perspective, he knew it shouldn’t, he was a synthetic, after all, but clearly something in his software and hardware was… Faulty Different.
Kirsh blinked again, the memory playing as he made sure to fix your hand above the bed sheets, and called the doctors.
Effective vaccine and treatment had still taken almost six months after to be ready, to be released. And those six months, well, Kirsh had seen well how your absence had affected the humans: they were more determined, yes, but also more stressed, more prone to discussing between themselves in ways they hadn’t been before.
It was effectively the first time Kirsh had had contact with the human grief, and a small part of him almost felt sorry that, for all he missed you, your laugh and perspective, he couldn’t really grasp how the other researchers, the human ones, experienced that missing.
How ironic, that the success had been what had caused Prodigy to take an interest on the medical company. Just one month after the release of treatment and vaccine, everything had been bought.
Kirsh allowed an unnecessary breath and turned his head to observe Kavalier as much as he could from his position.
How ironic, also, that his connection with you, how he had spent your last days with you, had caused Kavalier to bring him in as the “newest toy”, the teen at the time drilling him with questions about you and Kirsh’s relationship with you.
Kirsh missed you, yes. Missed the time you two hadn’t had, everything.
But he was thankful that you weren’t one Kavalier’s toys.