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The Tower is a wreck of jagged rebar and flashing red sirens. Terra stands in the center of the ruin, her expression a mask of faux-remorse that curdles into a smirk as Slade’s commandos flood the halls. She hasn't just broken the security codes; she’s broken the rhythm of the team.
Beside him, Gar is a shivering mess of green skin and raw nerves. He doesn’t fight back when a commando’s boot slams into his ribs; he just stares at Terra, his heart hammering against his sternum like a trapped bird. The betrayal is a physical weight, a cold vacuum that sucks the air out of his lungs. He lets out a choked, wet sound—half-sob, half-gasp—as the realization sinks in that her apology was a lie.
Victor feels the surge of heat in his circuits, a violent desire to blast everything to rubble, but he anchors himself. He reaches out, his metal hand locking around Gar’s shoulder with a grounding, crushing pressure. He can feel the frantic vibration of Gar’s pulse through the plating.
“The ground didn't actually shake until the third breach,” Victor notes, his voice a low, mechanical hum. He doesn't offer platitudes. Instead, he steers the shaking boy toward the kitchen, steering him away from the carnage. He finds the heavy jar of cocoa-butter spread and the thick sourdough. "Focus on the chemistry, Gar," Victor grunts, his voice grating. "The glucose, the lipids, every single carb. Eat until the void in your chest feels full."