self-inflicted scars

and I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall

If only it is that easy: if only he could lay it all at the feet of Wessex and the Voice, say this is your mess, wash his hands of it and walk away.

But he can't. Their burnt fingers reach for him when he closes his eyes. The silence of their circuits haunts him. He was a naïve fool and he can't—won't—hide from that. (But what could you have done?)

There's nothing he can do to change it now. Things happened as they did, and when Isla steps back he nods slightly. He'll agonize about this for a long time: he might as well be useful while he does it. "Yeah," he breathes, trailing into the clinic after her, self-conscious about the stains he leaves on her floor. So the first thing he does is wet a rag to wipe the soot from the underside of his boots, slow and meticulous.

"I wonder why she wanted this," he finally says.

Aamu