Archive of Our Own

His father had once told Zane that he was perfect. It was after Zane asked for his design to be changed, he’d wanted his memory switch removed, but he hadn’t even finished making the request before his father had told him, “I couldn’t make you any better than you already are.” Zane took the answer as it was, the loving response any parent would give their child, and did not press further. He came away from that interaction believing that he would never be changed, certainly not by his father, who cared for him so much it clouded his view of perfection.

Zane understands now what his father had meant by perfect. Not perfect like the universe, flawless and balanced. Perfectly human. He could not have been any more human than he was. How he could smell, taste and eat like anyone else around him. His ability to blend in, in most ways, with people. The way his stomach rose and fell as air passed through his chest. The fact that, though it was rare for him to do so, he could cry and actual tears would run down his cheeks.  The feel of his flesh pulled over synthetic bones built to be indistinguishable from that of a person’s. Zane had been so human that he went a long time without realizing he was not.  

Now he’s further from human than he’s ever been. A low-quality, titanium version of a once “perfect” self. An unconvincing mimic of something who used to be Zane, filled with copies of all the data that once made up his person. Zane is thankful his father is dead, and cannot see the state of him now. He is glad that his father will have only ever known him as perfect.

There isn’t much sensation throughout his entire body. Zane is hesitant to say that he can’t feel anything, because he is aware of the position of his limbs and can tell that there’s a shackle holding his foot to the wall. He would know this without looking, which means there must be some sort of feeling there, but it’s not truly the feeling of touch. He cannot smell anything. His hearing is constantly filled with a soft buzzing and beeping, his internal workings sneaking their way into his conscious perception. Though it is dark, he can see clearly enough to tell that he has a much larger field of peripheral vision. This compensates for the fact that his eyes do not move in their sockets. Instead, a small circle sits in the center of his vision, and when he shifts his focus, it flicks over to the new object of his attention, ironically distracting him from whatever he had meant to pay attention to. 

Worst of all, though, is that Zane cannot react to his situation properly. He cannot hyperventilate, and curl his knees up to his chest and feel the way they restrict his breathing. He cannot cry and struggle to shake the tears away. He cannot feel his heart rate increase and create a frantic shakiness that floods his entire body. All Zane is able to do is sit, staring at the screen that so obviously makes up his vision, and panic imperceptibly with no physical reaction to take solace in. He can only sit still, and swirl thoughts about his loss of humanity around in his circuits in a desperate attempt to not perceive the feeling that he is suffocating. Not because he actually needs to breathe but because, despite how desperately he wants to, he cannot.

Zane has no idea how long he’s been chained to the wall of a basement, he does not have any sort of working internal clock, nor does he have access to any outside light, but he’s fairly sure it’s been a few months. The best indicator for the passage of time is that occasionally his body will begin to slow and eventually force itself to shut down, though he has no idea how often this happens. He knows that this has happened to him sixty-four times, but not how many days are between each instance or how long he stays “asleep” for. Asleep, of course, is a generous descriptor, because he isn’t sleeping, that’s for living things. Zane chooses to think of it sleeping anyway. 

Occasionally, guards or other prisoners will make their way past, and Zane can just barely make out conversations through the small window in his cell door. They talk about noodles, mostly; Zane has gathered that there is some sort of factory nearby. Recently, talk of “the tournament” has also floated its way past, whatever that may be. He does not anticipate ever finding out; it’s not as though he can ask.

Nobody who passes ever speaks to Zane. They do not need to. He does not need to eat, drink or use the bathroom, so nobody ever comes in to help with those things. If they want to ensure that he is still there, they will sometimes peek through the window, but once they see him they always wordlessly depart. At first, Zane would try to interact with those who checked on him, but he learned fairly quickly that they wouldn’t respond and gave up.

Spending so much time alone would not be good for anyone. Zane, in this case, is extremely lucky that he is not human, and is therefore less susceptible to the insanity that would have undoubtedly affected him if he was. He has still experienced some negative effects of his prolonged isolation. He’s been having frequent nightmares, though he’s not sure if that’s actually what they are. They have some, but not all, of the traits of his visions. Aside from that, though, he has managed to maintain a sense of reality. When he hears whispers in the voices of his friends, or sees figures running across the walls of his room, he knows they are not real. He sometimes tries to ignore them, but will occasionally indulge in allowing himself to pay attention to their words. His family are not really there, but they are simultaneously all that he has to entertain himself. Even when they are cruel to him, which they can be, it is a better alternative to just listening to his own inner workings. As long as Zane maintains the knowledge that they are merely figments of his imagination, he sees no harm in speaking back.

All this to say, initially, when he hears a familiar voice whisper his name, Zane almost ignores it because he is not particularly in the mood to talk. It is the fact that his voice sounds slightly different than Zane remembers which drives him to look up and find Cole’s face staring at him through the door.

The logical part of him knows that Cole is almost certainly not there. Cole’s face and hair are entirely white, and it does not need to be stated that this is a deviation from his regular appearance. More notably, it does not make sense for Cole to be here now. Zane did not anticipate ever being rescued. Still, something about the nature of this version of Cole, perhaps the way he seems to be actively scanning the room and trying to find Zane instead of just knowing where he is or perhaps his appearance outside instead of inside the cell, drives Zane to stand and approach the window. His shackle allows him to get within three feet of the door.

Zane makes eye contact with Cole, and Cole gasps, “You’re alive!” And he starts laughing. “And you’re silver!”

Zane still isn’t sure what to make of this. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but something about this seems so real. He decides to cautiously respond with observations, “Titanium,” he corrects. Then remarks, “You look white.”

“Boy, is it great to see you!” Cole laughs more, then his face shifts and he looks over his shoulder. When he speaks again, he makes an effort to keep his voice low. He does not conceal his smile that shows off the chip in his front tooth, “Look at that, you look brand new.”

Zane doesn’t know what to make of this. Yes, he looks brand new. It sounded so simple when Cole said it, like it wasn't a big deal. Maybe he believes it’s not? Zane chooses not to dwell on that comment. 

Cole did not address the fact that he had apparently turned white.

There’s a commotion, and a loud, authoritative voice is clearly audible. The voice makes Cole cringe, and he begins speaking faster. “Hold tight, lugnut. I’m gettin’ you outta here. I’m gettin’ us both outta here.”

Cole flashes another dumb grin, and quickly extends his pinky finger. He offers a hushed, “That’s a promise,” then glances down at his hand, waiting for the other to make the next move. Zane understands what to do, he recognizes this as a gesture Cole liked a lot when they first met. He extends his pinky in response, just barely managing to reach his brother’s outstretched hand, but he doesn’t have enough flexibility to wrap his finger around Cole’s. Cole quickly picks up on this, and does the work to interlock their fingers. 

Cole laughs one last time before quickly scrambling away.  

Zane understands this means a guard is coming, so he ducks out of view of the window. He can faintly hear Cole be confronted and very confidently insist that he’s been in line the entire time. 

It takes a while, though Zane isn’t sure exactly how long, for Cole to return. Zane spends that time slowly convincing himself that he didn’t actually see Cole. Of course he didn’t, and it was a sign that he was really losing touch with reality that he’d ever believed he had. Yes, it had seemed so real, but things in his imagination occasionally did. Yes, they had briefly touched, but that was only a sign that his hallucinations were getting more complex. Cole couldn’t have been there, and Zane was going to really lose it if he couldn’t accept that. 

So Cole’s eventual re-appearance is a pleasant surprise, to say the least. First of all, he is not white anymore, Zane has no idea what was going on the first time they interacted. More importantly, though, he comes bearing a ring of keys. Zane does not ask how he got them. Cole unlocks the shackle keeping him to the wall. “Cole, you’ve returned.”

Cole laughs. He’s been uncharacteristically giggly both times Zane has seen him. “Of course I did.”

Once he’s on his feet, Zane’s almost knocked down again immediately after by the force of Cole jumping on Zane, and wrapping his arms around his shoulders. “Come here you shiny new tin can”

 Zane does not reciprocate the gesture, he tenses up slightly. Something about the contact is uncomfortable to him. He doesn’t push Cole away, though, he knows that his brother doesn’t mean any harm. He doesn’t even know exactly what’s wrong, he is ecstatic to see Cole again, but he’s also uneasy.

Cole either does not notice or does not mind “Can you feel the love?”

Though Zane doesn’t entirely know what that means, he’s fairly sure that he cannot. He knows that Cole cares for him, but there’s not the same feeling of physical touch, no warmth that should come with the gesture. Perhaps that is what feels so wrong. Zane answers honestly. “No.”

Cole falters, apparently not expecting that answer. So Zane takes it upon himself to push forward. “We must keep moving. The longer we stand here, the less time we have to escape.”

“Yeah,” Cole says, seeming slightly distracted until he repeats, “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go.”

Cole, in a hushed whisper, fills in the gaps in Zane’s knowledge while they make their exit. Master Chen, the noodle factory, the other prisoners, and most importantly, the happenings with the other ninja. “They’re all going to be so happy to see you,” he says. Zane is going to be so happy to see them as well.

When Cole says he can’t leave the other prisoners behind, Zane agrees to stay with him. There’s no reason to leave his side. So now the two of them are hiding in the factory. Everyone else has been ushered away, to wherever they’re sleeping. They don’t know that Zane and Cole are there, and nobody has any reason to suspect that the escaped prisoners would have stayed in the building, so as long as they’re relatively quiet, they don’t feel the need to worry about being caught. 

Zane has taken a seat on the floor. Explaining to Cole that too much is happening and he wants to rest. That statement is reality-adjacent, but the feeling of ‘too much’ stems more from his discomfort with the new way he moves, too fluid and heavy and palpably different from how he’s used to, and he wants to reduce it. It’s irrational to miss being confined alone to a room, but in this aspect, he does. 

Cole places his back on the wall and slides down until he is sitting, then scoots over until he’s close enough to embrace him. Zane cannot feel the warmth his body is radiating. That is definitely a factor of what was bothering him earlier. It also bothers him now.

“I missed you so much,” Cole sighs. “I was so sure I’d never see you again. I can’t believe you’re okay.”

Zane pulls away from Cole’s arms, then scoots slightly away, trying to avoid further acknowledging that there is something fundamentally wrong with him now. Cole must feel it too. It’s a shock that he was able to suppress his negative reaction both times he’s given Zane a hug. “I missed you too,” Zane says. He opens his mouth awkwardly in an attempt at a smile, before realizing that he cannot really do so, his faceplates slightly too stiff to produce the expression. He attempts to soften his gaze anyway, trying desperately to convey that he is thrilled to see his brother again. “I missed you more than anything.”

Cole tilts his head and furrows his brow, “Why do you seem so sad?”

“I am not,” Zane states flatly. His voice is tinny, robotic, barely recognizable as his own. It’s this that keeps Zane from further elaborating, he’s weary of the sound of his new voice. If he’s uncomfortable, Cole must be miserable just listening to him. Zane doesn’t want to force him to hear more than he absolutely needs to. 

Cole does an excellent job concealing his negative emotional responses, though. He only seems mildly upset when he says, “It’s okay if you are.”

Zane thinks about how best to respond. He does not want to lie, nor does he want to trouble his brother. This leaves him with only the option of deflecting slightly, and he does so by re-stating a truth from earlier, “I am so happy to see you again.” 

That statement seems to satisfy Cole, a childish grin spreads over his face and he scoots in to hug Zane once more, clinging to his shoulders and pressing his forehead into Zane’s chest. He hopes, irrationally, that whatever powers him is generating some heat, and Cole can feel it through his titanium chestplate. He does not reciprocate the embrace. For whatever reason, now he cannot stand the idea of touching Cole, even while Cole is holding him.

Suddenly, Cole sits up and releases Zane from his grasp. “Is that hurting you?” 

If he could, Zane would have furrowed his eyebrows. He can’t, so he’s forced to maintain the same blank expression when he says, “Of course not. Why do you ask?”

“You’re tensing up,” Cole explains. “Sort of.”

Zane is fairly sure he was not doing that. “I believe you may just not be used to…,” he allows the word “body” to remain implied, too uncomfortable to say it aloud. He begins a new sentence, “It is a very different material—” but again, he cannot bring himself to say ‘from my old one’, so again, Zane ends his sentence prematurely.

“No, it wasn’t that. Look, if you’re uncomfortable, just say so.” Cole sounds very upset in a way Zane cannot place. 

“I am not,” Zane says with as much sweetness as he can muster. It sounds fake anyway. Zane wonders if always sounds like he’s lying now. In an attempt to show his sincerity, he adds, “If anything, I am afraid I am making you uncomfortable.”

Cole does not react as anticipated. He seems almost offended by the idea. “You’re making me uncomfortable?” He asks with a scoff. 

Zane fidgets nervously with his heavy titanium fingers. “I am so different. I do not want that to be as obvious as it is.”

“What are you talking about?”

Zane desperately wants to express his feelings more obviously than he can. He has always been relatively unemotional, but this is different. This is the difference between a little emotion and nothing. “I am worried that I will upset you.”

Cole smiles warmly, “That could never happen.”

“I know that this is strange—” Zane attempts to explain.

“I don’t think you understand, Zane.” Cole interrupts, suddenly very serious. “This is the best moment of my life.”

“I certainly do.” Of course Zane understands, he feels the same way. Though it’s been a lot to process, seeing his brother again after having been trapped for so long has been indescribably wonderful.

Still, Cole apparently feels the need to elaborate. “No, like, having you back is a miracle. I thought you died. No, you did die. We all saw you die.” He traces his finger in a circle on the ground below them. 

Zane does not know how to respond, so he nods solemnly. “I am aware.”

Cole sighs, and Zane is momentarily very jealous. “I know you are. I’m so sorry. I just wanted to explain. I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

This statement confuses Zane. “You are not making anything worse.” He leans forward to show that he is listening and would not mind if Cole continued talking.

Cole correctly interprets the signal. He sighs again before continuing, “It’s just,” Cole pauses, furrowing his brow and debating what to say next. He settles on, “I picked your face up off the ground. Or, half of it anyway.” He chuckles darkly, then continues, “I remember it so clearly. And I held it in my hands and stared at it. I wish I hadn't stared like that. I could only stop when I heard Nya cry.”

Despite his speaking in short, nondescript sentences, the imagery of Cole’s description makes Zane slightly uncomfortable. But it is obvious that Cole wants to talk about this, so Zane does not stop him. He has never considered how his family probably felt about the events Cole is describing. Zane does not remember much from that day at all, and would obviously have no way of knowing what the aftermath had looked like. Still, he has been too worried about himself; apparently he only worries about others when he is just thinking about how they perceive him. Zane considers the possibility that he may be horribly selfish.

Cole begins speaking faster and more frantically. “I mean, they had this memorial. Things were done in your name—your memory, I guess. I cried like I hadn’t since I was a child. I had nightmares. And I’m not ashamed to admit that. Then I took a job with lodging so I could leave the monastery. We all stopped talking, because every time we did we could tell that you were missing. There were so many things happening, and they all pointed back to the fact that you weren’t there.” Cole chokes a bit on his final sentence, “Everything was so final.” 

Zane listens to Cole’s words patiently. He doesn’t have an emotional reaction until he has finished talking. And when it finally hits, Zane is surprised to find that guilt is the feeling that floods his systems and drives him to speak. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I should be apologizing. I’m sorry I told you all that. I don’t know what came over me.” Cole pauses for a beat. “Anyway, none of that matters anymore, man. You’re alive.”

“I am not alive,” Zane states reflexively, and then immediately wishes he hadn’t. 

Of course Cole gasps, takes a beat, then sternly tells Zane, “Don’t say that.”

“I did not mean it,” Zane says, and it’s a half-truth. He did not mean to say that out loud, which is essentially the same sentiment.

“Then why’d you say it?” Cole is, once again, unplaceably upset.

“What?” Zane asks. He had heard the question perfectly well but needs time to come up with a good answer. Something to get out of this situation without needlessly worrying Cole.

Cole repeats himself, and it’s not the opportunity to think that Zane hoped it would be. He does not respond at first, still trying to figure out a way to answer and ignoring the silence that is slowly becoming more uncomfortable. 

Zane is not alive. He does not have any of the sensations that used to make him feel that way. They have all been replaced by reminders that he is nothing but a machine. Maybe that’s all he ever was, but he doesn’t think so. He used to feel different, human in ways he did not appreciate. More importantly, though, he is aware that he should be dead. He doesn’t remember exactly, but he knows subconsciously that he died at the hands of The Overlord. And, just as Cole said, everyone memorialized him and moved on. So Zane cannot possibly be alive, he died a while ago. 

“I suppose,” Zane finally speaks, “I am having some difficulty adjusting to certain things.”

Cole looks Zane up and down, then hums quickly. “Yeah, I bet.”

“Everything is alright,” Zane adds quickly. “I will manage.”

There is a brief moment where nobody moves. Cole is uncharacteristically still, even as he asks, “What do you mean ‘manage’?”

Zane is aware that he has said too much once again, so he attempts to backtrack. “That is not what I meant. It was only a poor choice of words.”

“I don’t believe you,” Cole says. “You never mix up your words. What did you mean?”

Zane cannot tell if Cole is genuinely interested in hearing more. He’s not sure if he should be able to tell or not. “Do you actually want to know?”

“Of course.”

“My new, um…” Zane trails off, not wanting to say “body”, but cannot think of a more appropriate term, so he’s forced to. He starts his sentence again. “My new body has certain limitations that I am, well, not yet accustomed to.”

“Limitations?” Cole scoffs. “How? You look awesome. And way newer, can’t you just do more?”

Zane should not have expected Cole to understand. “That is true. I am a newer model of nindroid. But…” He cuts himself off

“But what?” Cole

It takes a moment for Zane to weigh his options. Cole’s not going to understand, of course he won’t. Cole is fairly empathetic but empathy has its limits. It would be easier, safer even, for Zane to back down and insist he hadn’t meant what he said. But there’s also a chance that Cole would continue pushing, or be upset by Zane clearly omitting information. Zane is not a natural liar, and Cole would likely catch on. Not for nothing, Zane does not want to lie, nor does he want to keep his feelings hidden from his brother. So Zane elaborates, “I cannot do the more human things which used to come naturally to me.”

“Oh,” Cole is obviously surprised by this answer and makes no effort to hide it. “Um, okay, like what?”

“I was built, originally, to be as close to a human as possible. You know that.”

“Yeah.” Cole drags out the end of the word slightly, indicating he would like Zane to elaborate further.

“I suppose,” Zane thinks for a beat before continuing, “I suppose I didn’t realize how much comfort I took in those features. Being able to breathe, mostly. But, though I did not cry often in the past, I will admit that it's upsetting that I am unable to now. I have also not been hungry, which is something I did not anticipate. I cannot move my face in the same way. That is, I am less capable of expressing myself. My voice sounds different, it has a more metallic sound that I cannot shake. I also do not have a tongue, nor eyelids, and their absence feels odd. I do not believe I have a sense of smell. Features such as those made me feel better, and more human.”

Zane omits several, less relatable, items from that list. He believes it would be harder to explain the way his body buzzes, that his thoughts move differently, that his field of vision is too wide and he can see too well in the dark, that he’s constantly looking through a robot’s HUD overlay, how his sense of touch has been altered to the point where he resents that he has to be in contact with something at all times. Cole could not understand those complaints, so for his sake, Zane sticks to worries strictly along the lines of “I used to be able to do this and now I can’t.” He assumes that will be more relatable.

Cole listens patiently as Zane talks about himself for far too long. When he’s finished, there’s a pause. Zane worries if he has said too much, or if the long speech given in the voice that is not his was too hard for Cole to listen to. Then Cole simply says “That sucks ass, dude. I’m so sorry.”

“There are some benefits—” Zane begins. He’s sure that’s true, though it doesn’t feel like it, and he hopes to reassure Cole by thinking of them. However, he is cut off from continuing.

“You don’t have to do that, Zane.” Cole says flatly. Zane understands that Cole can see through his attempted deceit, of course he can.

“Okay,” Zane replies, and then he stops talking. He would be content to stay silent for the rest of the night.

After a moment, Cole speaks again. “Y’know, I think we can get you feeling like yourself again,” he promises. His tone is unpleasantly lighthearted. “Well, maybe not we, I don’t know anything about tech. But Jay and Nya can. Dr. Borg probably could too, you could maybe ask him. I mean, Julien did it once, and we have better tech now, so—” 

Zane does not appreciate his father’s name being mentioned, so he cuts Cole off. “I do not know if that is possible,” he says, referring to Cole’s first statement. 

Cole laughs like he believes Zane is setting up a joke, “And why’s that?”

Zane does not know. He had, once again, spoken without thinking. That does not mean that his statement was untrue, he does believe it is impossible for him to be his old self again, just that he is not aware of exactly why. Still, he has to say something to Cole. Zane opens his mouth, and is somewhat surprised by what comes out.

“I am not the same person—nindroid— that you lost.” Zane explains to Cole simultaneously realizing the information for himself. “I cannot feel like my old self because I am not the original Zane Julien.” Once he’s said it, everything makes sense. The truth doesn’t upset Zane, but he’s not as excited as he should be to have identified the cause of his perpetual discomfort. He is ultimately overwhelmingly neutral.

“What do you mean?” Cole suddenly sits very upright. When Zane takes too long to answer, he presses, “What does that mean, Zane?”

“I am just a replica,” Zane confesses. It feels like a confession, anyway. To Cole, to the other ninja, to himself, to the universe and the First Master. “My code was replicated when I was rebuilt. There’s no such thing as ‘coming back to life’. Everyone knows that.” Zane feels the need to restate his original claim, “I am just a replica.”

It’s Cole’s turn to take too long to respond, but Zane does not need him to. He prefers silence, actually.

“That’s not true,” Cole whispers, his voice breaking slightly. 

Cole’s sadness registers to Zane, who immediately feels bad for making things worse. Now he understands what Cole meant when he said that earlier. This was supposed to be a nice reunion, wasn’t it? He shouldn’t have ruined it. “I did not-”

Cole is not listening. “You didn’t mean that.” Even though the circumstances are forcing him to keep his voice low, emotion is seeping into Cole’s tone. “That isn’t true, Zane, and you know it. You’re still-“ and he cuts himself off with a quiet, shuttering sob. He briefly leans towards Zane, seemingly intending to grab him again, but pulls away and curls in on himself instead. Cole whispers, “I’m sorry.” 

Zane does not want to, but this is not about what he wants, so he reaches out and pulls Cole into an embrace. The gesture is initially awkward, but Cole quickly adjusts himself so that he is comfortably resting his head on Zane’s shoulder. Zane knows that it must be uncomfortable, the titanium pressing against his cheek, but he does not shake Cole off. For whatever reason, Cole seems to not mind. He sits and cries into Zane’s shoulder, choking on sobs and shuddering breaths. 

Every time Cole’s chest rises and falls, Zane becomes exponentially more aware that his does not. Irrationally, illogically, Zane is incredibly jealous.

 Thinking about himself, though, is not productive, so he shifts his attention to Cole. Zane should not have told him that. Cole cares a lot for Zane, obviously he does, and it would be upsetting to learn that the person sitting in front of him was only a replica of his friend. Of course the suggestion of that being true reduced him to tears. His emotions were already high, likely even more so than Zane’s. It was not the time for Zane to express his worries, it was the time for Cole to express his. Zane realizes that now. He cannot take back what he said, but he can try and convince his friend that it wasn’t true. “I didn’t mean that,” Zane says quietly, trying to make his voice as human as possible. He is not successful. 

“You didn’t,” Cole reiterates. It is not a question, but a firm statement. Zane did the right thing by telling him that.

 So he says it again, “I didn’t.”

And it’s true that he did not mean to say that. The words had just spilled out of his mouth in response to Cole’s. But it didn’t feel wrong, after he said it. Almost as though it were a subconscious truth he inherently knew. He is only a replica of the white ninja. He is a copy of the code of the original, now dead Zane.

It makes perfect sense, too. His inability to act emotionally. His uncanny voice. The fact that his thoughts move differently through his head. His consistent unease. His persistent feelings that his body is wrong. Every aspect of his being has been screaming at him that he is an imposter. He has felt so strange because he is inhabiting the body and mind of a dead boy. And there is no amount of small tweaks that could be made to his body that would make him feel more like his original self. The ability to mimic human behaviors would not change the fact that he is dead. He is simply not him anymore. The pieces have fallen into place. He is just a replica.

It feels wrong to deceive the other ninja. No, scratch that, just “the ninja.” He cannot, in good conscience, include himself in their group anymore. It would be wrong to continue to call himself their brother. But his recent attempt to tell Cole the truth about his identity led to where they are now. Cole is still sniffling, with his frame leaning heavily against Zane’s. He is clearly not in the right state to be told the truth again. And Zane needs to protect Cole more than he needs to come clean. He may need to protect everyone from the information that he is a clone. He is resigned to do so.

Cole lifts his head and looks at Zane for a moment. “Why are you making that face?” He asks, forcing a laugh that fails to mask that his voice still a little quivery from crying.

He was not aware that he was making a face, but he knows why he is. “I’m thinking,” Zane admits.

“What are you thinking about?” 

Zane turns to look at him. He can see the glow of his mechanical eyes reflected in Cole’s pupils. 

He feels uncomfortable, though he knows he’s doing the right thing, when he lies to Cole. “Just that I should apologize.”

“For what?”

“For speaking without thinking. I didn’t mean what I said. It was a fleeting thought I had no reason to voice. I do not believe anything of the sort.”

“Really? Do you really mean that?”

“Of course.” A pang of guilt resounds throughout his circuitry as he says, “I would not lie to you.”

Cole laughs, “I missed you so much, Zane.”

“I missed you too,” Zane says. And that, at least, is true.