Work Text:
>Reboot completed.
>>All systems online.
Sandrone wakes. Everything comes to her slowly: the plaintive notes of a song, the warmth at the heel of her palm, a soft weight at her feet.
When the world reveals itself to her, one blink at a time, light rushes into her ocular sensors a bit too fast. A whimper of discomfort escapes her and causes the humming to stop. The silence hangs in heartbeats; somewhere between the third and the seventh, the previous warmth surges forward and twines itself between her fingers.
“Sandrone?” The voice that she processes is thin and wispy, more akin to breath than sound. For some reason, the image of starlight comes to mind, as does a field of immaculate flowers. It goes as quick as it comes, and when she turns her head forty-five degrees to her right, she is greeted with magenta eyes, bright and endless.
“You…” Her own voice sounds rusty by comparison, she thinks.
“You’re awake,” the eyes seem to say, until it occurs to her that the girl they belong to is the one actively speaking. “I-I’m so glad.”
Sandrone attempts to respond. She squeezes the warmth in her grasp and wheezes garbled nonsense. She knows not exactly what she wishes to communicate, something caught between a question and a plea. All she knows is that this girl has what she seeks.
“Oh, let me get ██████████, ” the pretty girl with the pretty eyes frets. The name sounds foreign to her ears, muffled as if she was underwater. “She’ll know what to do.”
Still, Sandrone is nothing if not persistent. She tugs—perhaps a little too harshly, for the other girl falls upon her in a flurry of silks and skirts. An urge compels Sandrone to reach up and cup her cheeks, thumbs running delicately along the skin there, directly beneath the eyes that are as wide as moons. Tears follow shortly thereafter, and she dutifully swipes each droplet away.
She is important, a part of Sandrone whispers, though she cannot locate the code nor the potential source for it. She must be kept safe.
“Sandrone,” the girl murmurs, in a sort of half-sigh. She leans deeper into the touch; her lips skim the flesh of her palm.
A live wire must be the explanation for the jolt that runs through Sandrone’s circuitry. Overwhelmed, she gasps and attempts to retreat, only for the other girl to desperately grip her wrists. She tries to speak, but her throat feels like sandpaper.
Words fail her regardless when the girl offers a doleful smile, a sight so achingly familiar that something in her flutters, quick like hummingbird wings. Sandrone brings her face closer, studying her like one would a constellation, but much to her dismay, her memory banks yield nothing. Frustration wells up inside her and manifests in the form of an indignant huff. For some reason, this causes the girl’s tears to replenish anew, although pealing giggles accompany them this time.
“Sandrone,” the girl repeats, like she will never tire of saying it, like her name has the sweetest mouthfeel. Mirroring Sandrone’s actions from earlier, she cradles her face as if she has the world in her hands, gaze gentle and adoring.
It is very clear that she is very dear to this mysterious girl. It is also very clear that her following words will tear the other girl’s heart asunder, but she must know the truth and what it all means: this tenderness for someone she no longer is, this misplaced affection that renders her helpless and guilty.
“I’m sorry, but… Who are you?”