Federico flinches as the pain crashes through their forced connection, sharp and disorienting. The tether snaps, but its echoes remain, reverberating through his skull like a lingering pressure behind his eyes. Colors like the ones that had stared into him continue to swirl through his vision, shapes bending and warping before settling back into reality.
Just in time to see Robin stumble and fall.
Instinct overrides exhaustion. He lurches forward, catching her before she can fully collapse, his arm wrapping around her back as he eases her descent. He kneels as her head falls against his shoulder, as she mumbles something weak and fragmented—asking for help, but from whom? Her unfocused eyes stare past him, hand twitching toward something he cannot see, too weak to reach.
"That's enough, Signora," he murmurs, his voice steadier than he feels. Carefully, he takes her hand, guiding it away from the empty air and resting it against her abdomen. Her breathing slows. Unconscious.
The pain lingers. Not the raw invasion of before, but the dull, gnawing ache left in its wake. Discordant frequencies, too similar yet too different, clashing and leaving behind a ringing emptiness.
Like the two of them.
Federico exhales, long and weary. He cannot keep going like this. Robin had been right about that much—this path is unsustainable. Her interference only drained what little energy he had left, what little she had left. Had she always possessed the power to force her will onto others? Onto him?
Had Sunday?
His gaze lifts to the black mirror, solemn. His white Executor’s cloak stands stark against the void it covers. Normally, he would use it to keep Robin warm. But here, now, it serves as a shroud for the dead.
"I'm sorry you had to see that. If you can see at all."
The words serve no practical purpose. He is almost certain Sunday cannot hear him. And yet...he still says them. Casper had told him to let the feelings happen, even when they don’t make sense.
"I'll take her somewhere safe. Don't worry."
And he does.
His limbs protest, his body swaying slightly as he rises, but his footing holds. Robin is lighter than expected, even with the weight of her prosthetics. A fleeting thought enters his mind—he needs to find food on this level. She likely hasn’t eaten either.
He focuses on that, on idle logistics, on anything to keep his mind moving as he carries her through the empty halls. Steps heavy, but steady.
The room he woke in before is quiet when he arrives. He lays Robin carefully onto the couch, his fingers lingering a moment as he checks the swelling at her temple. A bump, nothing serious. More than likely, she has passed directly into sleep.
She looks exhausted. That makes sense.
Weariness drags at him now, too. He steps back, surveying the mirrored space, taking in its unnatural stillness. He needs to keep watch. It’ll be easier with his back against the door.
So he sits, curling around his firearm, his shoulders pressed to the doorframe. Guarding against threats. Against her, should she wake and attempt something reckless. Again.
It is quiet.
His thoughts settle with the weight of a task. His grip remains firm, posture disciplined. He keeps his guard.
And then, without realizing, he blinks a little too slowly, his breath evening out. His eyes remain closed.
Barely ten minutes into his watch, Federico is fast asleep.
no subject
Just in time to see Robin stumble and fall.
Instinct overrides exhaustion. He lurches forward, catching her before she can fully collapse, his arm wrapping around her back as he eases her descent. He kneels as her head falls against his shoulder, as she mumbles something weak and fragmented—asking for help, but from whom? Her unfocused eyes stare past him, hand twitching toward something he cannot see, too weak to reach.
"That's enough, Signora," he murmurs, his voice steadier than he feels. Carefully, he takes her hand, guiding it away from the empty air and resting it against her abdomen. Her breathing slows. Unconscious.
The pain lingers. Not the raw invasion of before, but the dull, gnawing ache left in its wake. Discordant frequencies, too similar yet too different, clashing and leaving behind a ringing emptiness.
Like the two of them.
Federico exhales, long and weary. He cannot keep going like this. Robin had been right about that much—this path is unsustainable. Her interference only drained what little energy he had left, what little she had left. Had she always possessed the power to force her will onto others? Onto him?
Had Sunday?
His gaze lifts to the black mirror, solemn. His white Executor’s cloak stands stark against the void it covers. Normally, he would use it to keep Robin warm. But here, now, it serves as a shroud for the dead.
"I'm sorry you had to see that. If you can see at all."
The words serve no practical purpose. He is almost certain Sunday cannot hear him. And yet...he still says them. Casper had told him to let the feelings happen, even when they don’t make sense.
"I'll take her somewhere safe. Don't worry."
And he does.
His limbs protest, his body swaying slightly as he rises, but his footing holds. Robin is lighter than expected, even with the weight of her prosthetics. A fleeting thought enters his mind—he needs to find food on this level. She likely hasn’t eaten either.
He focuses on that, on idle logistics, on anything to keep his mind moving as he carries her through the empty halls. Steps heavy, but steady.
The room he woke in before is quiet when he arrives. He lays Robin carefully onto the couch, his fingers lingering a moment as he checks the swelling at her temple. A bump, nothing serious. More than likely, she has passed directly into sleep.
She looks exhausted. That makes sense.
Weariness drags at him now, too. He steps back, surveying the mirrored space, taking in its unnatural stillness. He needs to keep watch. It’ll be easier with his back against the door.
So he sits, curling around his firearm, his shoulders pressed to the doorframe. Guarding against threats. Against her, should she wake and attempt something reckless. Again.
It is quiet.
His thoughts settle with the weight of a task. His grip remains firm, posture disciplined. He keeps his guard.
And then, without realizing, he blinks a little too slowly, his breath evening out. His eyes remain closed.
Barely ten minutes into his watch, Federico is fast asleep.