The ability to feel, the sudden realization that the twitching of his eyelids and the sticky obstruction across his throat was called sadness, the quick, wary hum in his head was called brooding, and the compression of the biocomponents inside, akin to shutting down to prevent a virus from entering the system was called fear came down on him like a huge layer of snow. Every emotion settles in his head realistically, even if he never could and is unlikely to ever be able to feel each one of them properly.

It's new, unbridled — he feels against the very idea accompanying his creation are exhilarating, making him want to feel every breath of humanity, and making him recoil back with the thought "what am I doing" echoing in his ears like a hammer blow at the same time. But right now, right now, the second one wins by a colossal margin.

Blood, blue fluid flows down your body as he squeezes your shoulders so that the synthetic skin squirms under the mechanical grip. The red flashing LED on your temple looks like a sentence — it infects Markus, making the noises of the processes inside him and the noises of the associates outside weave together into one buzzing swarm.

They need to go, they scream along with common sense. But he can't go without you, even if the mission demands it, even if he risks everything he's ever put at stake in any attempt to save your life. The burning desire, no, the need to hold you without letting go, doesn't allow a move — Markus has never before wanted so badly to be a willless machine again.

"No, we're not leaving you," he frowns without knowing why, his hand trying to apply pressure to the bullet-ridden places. He doesn't regret shooting people, he doesn't feel sorry for them — he only feels sorry that you're the one who ended up getting hurt. It's so unfair in his newfound sense of justice. "I said no," he tells them louder, holding them tighter, trying to rise to his feet with you almost limp on his shoulder.