"Anything but gnosis!"

The voice sounded like an echo, imbued with a note of anguish and a pleading tone as the puppet, who naively believed herself to be a god, revelled in the threat of losing power and the destruction of her only affirmation of meaning drenched in sparks of suffering. The heart, nonexistent, bled as the bindings, like sinister threads, tore at the marionette's back. Why did the heartless puppet feel so painful, as if pain was tearing through it? This pain, as if tearing it apart, was robbing it of its last hope and meaning. As he fell, scraps of an entire life flashed before his eyes.

"I've lost my heart again... it hurts so bad. It feels like my skin is burning, turning me to ash," he whispers in his thoughts, closing his eyes and anticipating his end, falling from the height inside the huge robot.

Scaramouche prepares to feel the cold jolt of concrete, the puppet's heart and body mourning another confirmation of his insignificance as he burns with fire. Another confirmation of insignificance, only grinning its pity. "It's just ashes... nothing but ashes," he mumbles, gathering his strength. Unspilled years of betrayal and tears accumulate in his throat. I wish he'd never been born...

Scaramouche is ready to feel the cold jolt of concrete, the puppet's heart and body mourning another confirmation of his insignificance as if burned by a flame. But instead of the predictable collision with the cold concrete, he falls onto something soft and warm, caressing him into its embrace... Something more protective than expected.

However, the painful wounds on his back where the mechanisms are attached drain the last of his strength to reject the humiliation of the one holding him. There is a sense of physical weakness in his real estate, but also despair at the one who has come to hold him in an embrace of protection.