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He feels groggy, feels the world melt and shift around him. His limbs are metal, heavy, useless. He hears voices above him, feels uncaring hands handle him, sees his world half consumed by darkness when he's put into a box.
He hears panicked shouts, feels his heart constrict. Voices of bells and velvet — he hates how he's the reason for the pain in their voices.
And then, a gruff grunt, a loud snap — that kind that echoes, the kind that reverberates through him and breaks his soul. His whole body is asleep, his limbs are stone, but fear leaps up and suffocates him.
What's happening? Are his sisters okay?
The world dies. It's silent. His fear moults into grief, grief into guilt, guilt into despair. It's vicious, it bites into him. The pain stings, he feels his eyes water, a lingering feature of his stripped humanity, humanity he no longer possesses and no longer deserves.
And then he hears it. Hears them. And his world shatters all over again.
"Broken," the gruff voice says, sighing like a few snapped pieces of metal are nothing more than minor inconveniences, "we'll have to make a new batch."
Memories plague him. Grief strangles him. He recites their shared history together, a preparation for the eventual first-not-first meeting.
But they're not the same.