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Mike doesn't bother trying to protest as Bonnie leads him out of Ms. Sanchez's office. It's not like it would do anything. The hand on his shoulder, fingers placed delicately but immovably, is proof enough of that. Gentle pressure. A soft, constant push forward. Utterly impossible to escape. Mike is an expert on being grabbed, but this technique is completely unfamiliar to him. To force someone into motion, you usually need either a massive psychological advantage or a firm thrust. Bonnie is using neither. Just the barest hint of force, the unyielding nature of his own flesh, and the threat of what could happen if Mike doesn't go along with it.

Joke's on him. Mike's not stupid enough to believe he's actually in danger here. Bonnie already had a chance to kill him tonight – if the android wanted him dead, he would already be in pieces. Mike has no idea why he's safe, but he is. The giddy warmth of that thought carries him outside, into the silent hallways.

Bonnie takes him past the office Mike's spent all his nights in so far, down the hall, all the way to an unfamiliar door. Make that a doorframe. The snapped-off hinges still stuck to its sides wouldn't support anything. Inside is another office, almost but not quite identical to the first. It's roomier, with two large vents gaping open, toothless and hungry, over the scarred desk. There's a file cabinet, a large potted plant, and two uneven stacks of TV screens on either side of the doorway. The walls are covered in pictures.

Only one door. Mike slows down as his burst of suicidal courage begins to fade. No escape route. He could try and fit into one of the vents, but Bonnie's hand is still on his shoulder. He won't be able to get up there before he's caught.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Be real, Mike. You're already caught.

The hand on his shoulder presses him forward. He balls his fists at his side and steps into the room. All the sound cuts out the moment he's over the threshold. The rustling of footsteps, the murmur of voices, the occasional bursts of volume as someone loses their temper and yells – it's all gone. The only sound left is the quick lub-dub of his own adrenaline-fuelled heart. Mike skitters in a bit further, but Bonnie's fingers tighten the slightest bit when he tries to move behind the desk. That's out, then. He stops where he is, steadies himself, and looks up.

Red eyes settle on him, burning like stars. They possess the same terrible gravity that consumes planets and pulls meteors to their doom. Mike swallows thickly and fights to look away. The room feels very cold all of a sudden.

So. Talking.

Bonnie speaks first. He was the one who started this. It shouldn't be a surprise, but it is. “Why?”

Mike blinks and scrambles for a response. “Why what?”

He knows as soon as it's out of his mouth that he said something wrong. Bonnie doesn't have the patience to beat around the bush. The weight of those inhuman eyes presses down on him until he's ready to cry or scream. Words tumble out of his mouth, but he can barely even hear them. He's drowning and all he can see is red.

“Why the fire alarm? Why I left the office? Why I'm still here? Good questions, all of them! Wish I knew the answers. How about this for 'why' – why didn't you kill me?”

Slowly, like a cat in a sunbeam, the android blinks. “Why help? Before.”

Mike's throat is dry and painful when he swallows. Oh thank god, some context. “In the bathroom?”

That gets him a nod. Still slow, deliberate.

'So you wouldn't kill me' is the first thought that jumps into his head, but like hell he's going to say that. He might not know where this conversation was going, but he can tell that'll go over badly. Besides, now that he's had a chance to think about them, the words don't sit quite right. They aren't wrong, exactly, but...

He didn't need to give Bonnie his towel back then, did he?

“You were hurting,” he says finally. “You shouldn't need a reason to help when someone's hurting. Might not always work out the way you hope, but the effort is important. Right?” The corners of his mouth push upward, just a bit.

For a long moment, Bonnie does nothing. Just watches, inhuman and immaculate, so still his edges shimmer in the corner of Mike's vision. The smile dies on Mike's lips. He waits for – something. Judgement, maybe. Or laughter. Or death.

What happens is this: Bonnie lowers his eyes, draping thick lashes over mechanical irises the red of an exposed heart. His face is blank. His shoulders are still. Ever-so-slightly, his right arm twitches. He looks the same as he did in the hallway, when he let Mike go hurtling past.

“Why are you still here, Mike Schmidt?” he asks, each syllable clear and flawless.

“Because no one will care if I die.”

Mike snaps his jaw shut, but it's too late. He didn't mean to say that. It's probably against the rules to say shit like this. He flinches back, tripping over his own feet in an effort to put some distance between them.

Too late. Bonnie is already in front of him. A gloved hand hovers less than an inch from his eye. Long fingers rest against his cheek, tilting his head back like a doll. His neck aches. Doesn't matter. He can't look away. Bonnie's face isn't expressionless anymore, but Mike couldn't put a name to the emotion it conveys if his life depended on it. Whatever it is, it punches the air out of him and leaves him choking on his own tongue. Red eyes drop to his throat.

Vulnerable, his survival instinct whispers. There's no follow-up – just an acknowledgement of possibility. If Bonnie wanted, he could break Mike's neck in an instant.

The hand drops, leaving a strip of warmth on cold skin. Mike blinks. Bonnie is gone. He staggers back, whirling toward the doorway. It's empty. He's alone.

Slowly, he raises a hand to his cheek. He can still feel Bonnie's touch on his skin.

Raised voices echo through the halls as Mike returns to the public areas of the building. Immediately, all thoughts about Bonnie are shoved to the back of his mind. He can't make out the words yet, but he does recognize the people talking. It's not even 3 AM. Ms. Sanchez and Fritz are having an argument. He's about to walk into it.

Nothing like an impending disaster to wake you up in the morning, he thinks, and walks faster.

The noise starts to resolve into words. Mike breathes in at the wrong time and chokes on warm, pizza-scented air.

“–I wasn't hiding anything,” Ms. Sanchez protests. “It just wasn't a good time–”

“Bullshit,” Fritz hisses, low and vicious. Mike's never heard him use that tone before. He could happily live the rest of his life without ever hearing it again. “Give me the papers. We're leaving.”

“Fritz–” she starts.

“Give. Me. The. Papers.”

She draws in a breath to try again. Something personal now, intimate, to try and tug at Fritz's heartstrings. Mike knows how these things go. He doesn't need to know what the argument is about to know it's the wrong decision.

“Scott wouldn't have wanted–”

There's a loud scrape as Fritz shoots to his feet, knocking his chair over in the process. “Scott's a fucking idiot! He doesn't get an opinion! And until you work the night shift, neither do you!”

Mike freezes midstep, one foot hovering just above the ground. Scott? Why are they–

“I didn't want to tell you until we knew for sure! And then this mess happened. How was I supposed to break the news?”

“Not like this!”

A sad little sound has his head jerking toward the opposite end of the hall. Jeremy's there, eyes wide and sightless, one hand over his mouth. He wobbles a little, unsteady on his feet. Reaches out with the hand that isn't stifling sobs and uses the wall to prop himself up.

Oh, Mike thinks. Oh shit. She couldn't have...

The door to Ms. Sanchez's office slides open exactly the same way the doors to the main security office do. Same pace, same noise. Fritz still manages to make it seem like he's slamming the door open when he leaves, a bunch of forms clutched in one fist. Mike catches a glimpse of Ms. Sanchez looking out after him. Her face has gone yellow. She stares after Fritz like a starving traveller in a desert who's realized the oasis is just another mirage. He glances around the hall, taking in Jeremy's trembling form and Mike's still one, then flips her off.

“Scott's alive,” he barks. “He's fucked up. Comatose. They aren't sure when he'll wake up. There,” he says loudly, refusing to look back at Ms. Sanchez, “you don't have to worry about breaking the news. Now fuck off.”

She might say something back. It's hard to tell. If she does, Mike can't make it out over the ringing in his ears. Jeremy's mouth drops open in slow motion.

'He's alive?' the blond mouths. Says. Whatever.

Fritz nods jerkily, his mouth a harsh line. His eyes burn as he moves towards them. He offers the pages silently, facing upward. Mike closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe. Hospital visitation forms. Isn't that a blast from the past.

“Are we going?” he asks. Thinks he asks, anyways. His voice sounds like it's coming from a long ways away.

It isn't a question, really. The answer comes through in the weakness of Jeremy's knees, the slight tremor of Fritz's hand around the papers. There's no choice for the two of them. So Mike schools his numb face into an imitation of a smile and steps forward. Some slight tension eases from the hallway as he does so. He keeps walking. Fritz and Jeremy fall into step behind him.

They don't run into anyone on the way out. Thank god. He doesn't know what would happen if someone tried to stop them.

Mike has never liked hospitals. They smell bad. The lights buzz and it sets his teeth on edge. Also, every time he steps through those big sliding doors, he's gripped by the irrational fear that someone he loves has died. It's stupid. He didn't even know Scott that well. By the time their forms are processed, he's almost totally disconnected from his body. The nurse calls them, softly, like she's afraid to wake someone up. There is no one sleeping here. There is no one, period. The three of them are the only ones in this waiting room.

Jeremy shoots to his feet, moving after her with long, bounding strides. Fritz follows, hands jammed in his pockets. Mike looks at the floor and stays where he is. He doesn't want to move right now. To be honest, he's not sure if he can.

The last time he sat in a room like this, there was a blanket around his shoulders and blood drying on his skin. If he focuses on where he is, it all comes back – the heavy fabric, the hushed voices, the sick feeling curled in the pit of his stomach. The tacky streaks adhering to his skin. The sound of screeching metal playing in his head on a loop, over and over until he wants to crack his skull open. Maybe that would let it out.

There's no point. He drifts instead, putting as much distance between him and reality as he can. Lets go of the white walls, the soft-backed chairs, the brightly-coloured posters full of disturbing information. There's a chorus of sound in the building. Footsteps, beeping, the buzzing of light fixtures. All he has to do is stop thinking and just listen. His brain can't wreck him if he isn't using it. That's the theory, anyway. In practice, it's a bit harder. Especially when a set of footsteps cut off from the rest and approach.

Whoever they belong to, it isn't Fritz or Jeremy. Night shift has given them a certain wariness to their steps that never quite disappears. The person walking toward him isn't moving cautiously. Just slowly. Wearily, he thinks. Like they're carrying the whole world on their shoulders.

Closer. Closer. Finally, the footsteps pause. A nearby chair groans in protest as someone big settles into it. After a second, an unfamiliar voice says, “Hello.”

Mike isn't sure what makes him respond. He still feels divorced from his body as his throat vibrates, his mouth opens, and something comes out.

“Hi. What brings you here?”

He snaps his mouth shut immediately, but it's too late. The damage is done. He ducks his head low, cheeks burning. Nothing to bring you back to earth like a bit of hideous embarrassment.

Soft, bitter laughter wafts toward him. “You must be Mike. Scott told me about your tendency to speak before you think.”

Mike opens his eyes. A seat a little further down the row has been occupied by a very tall man with bright red hair. Not quite firetruck red, but not rust red, either. A darker colour. Saturated, but subdued. His age is impossible to place, but he's got the look of someone who used to be very handsome, and still would be if they took better care of themselves. His face is bruised and mottled with shadows. When he shifts, vivid scars peek out from under his sleeves.

“Who are you?”

The man smiles. His teeth are straight and white, but his mouth seems... dirty, somehow. Rusted. Stained. “Reuben. I'm – I was – Scott's partner.”

“What?” The bottom drops out of Mike's stomach. “I thought he was still...”

“He is. Technically.” Reuben sighs. “Massive brain injury, massive internal trauma, massive blood loss. His heart stopped three times on the operating table. He's not breathing on his own. Everyone's been very nice about it, but I know he isn't going to wake up.” He looks down at his hands. “I should be used to losing people by now.”

It's not something you can get used to, Mike thinks, but says nothing. Grief isn't something that words can fix. He keeps his mouth shut until Reuben looks up again.

“I've brought down the mood. You worked with Scott. Tell me what it was like?”

That... might be difficult. “I – I might not be able to.”

Reuben smiles, stained and terribly sad. “It's all right. I know. Just... share what you can.”

'What he can' isn't a lot. Two days isn't enough time to get to know someone, and most of what Mike knows is off limits. It's scary and frustrating to have his throat suddenly close off every other sentence, but he pushes through and talks about Scott's plastic smile and nervous laughter. The occasional glimpse Mike caught of the man behind it. The secrets Scott was clearly keeping, how he only ever called the androids 'mascots' – that one takes a while to get out – how terribly young he sounded in the tapes. Most of what Mike says isn't exactly flattering, but Reuben drinks up every detail he manages to get out. That's enough motivation to keep going. Whether or not he was honest when he introduced himself, the man is a good listener.

To his surprise, Mike finds himself inclined to believe that Reuben is who he says he is. It's the sadness that does it – the sorrow that lurks behind every movement, the awful blankness hiding behind grimy smiles. Underneath a thin layer of distracted, desperate friendliness lies a man deep in mourning, gathering up every scrap of someone he loved.

Mike can empathize. He wishes he had more stories to share. Anything to hold off the inevitable questions.

'Where were you?'

'Why didn't you do anything?'

'Why did you get him killed?'

Finally, he runs out of details and has no choice but to stop talking. He won't lie to someone who's grieving, so he waits for the accusations to begin. They don't come.

In the end, Reuben asks only one question. “Do you hate them?”

Mike's face does a thing. He can't really describe it, since there's no mirrors around, but it must look at least half as ridiculous as it feels, because Reuben's lips twitch upward for a moment.

“The four of them,” he clarifies. “Do you hate them for what they do?”

Hesitation has a taste of sorts. Like regret in advance. The easy answer would be 'yes.' It's what would be expected. Reasonable. Justified. For the second time today, Mike leaves 'easy' where it fell and tries to put some stubborn and irrational belief into words.

“They're hurting,” he says at last. In his head, Bonnie grips the sink with rigid fingers, half his face ripped away. Oozing black blood and raw terror, porcelain flakes crumbling off in his delicate hands. “I can't hate anyone who's suffering like that.”

Up to now, Reuben's smiles have all been grimy, helpless things. For a moment, the word 'subdued' is the least fitting description possible. His eyes and his teeth are blinding. Mike throws up a hand to guard his face. It isn't enough. Deep, bloody radiance fills the room, joyous and abhorrent.

This is how the sun will look when it devours Mercury.

The moment passes. Reuben is human again. He is holding a plain beige file folder in one hand, thick with papers and odd little lumps.

“The pizzeria was Scott's favourite place growing up,” he says nonsensically. As if he's picking up a conversation they haven't started. “When the four of them went... awry... he took it personally. Made it his goal to find out what happened and how to change them back. I did what I could, but I'm blacklisted from dealing with them, so I mostly ended up as moral support. Still, we managed to gather up a bit of evidence over the years.”

Mike's throat is bone dry. It aches when he swallows, his eyes fixed on the folder. Is – is that...?

“Yes. Everything we put together.” Reuben sighs and shrinks in on himself. “You don't have to take it. Perhaps this investigation should die with him. But you're a kind boy. I thought I'd make the offer.”

Pages rustle as he holds the folder out. Gently, tentatively, Mike reaches back. The folder's unexpectedly heavy. It nearly slips out of his hands. He has to lurch forward out of his chair to steady it. He half-expects Reuben to laugh at him, but no. Whatever joy the man had found moments ago is already tightly locked away.

“Thanks.” Mike ducks his head and buries his nose in the folder. Newspaper articles, academic reports, drawings – there's so much here it makes his head spin. All of covered in notes written in rushed red pen. “This is...”

“This isn't your responsibility,” Reuben finishes, an odd tone to his voice. “But you chose to stay, which means it's your problem. It's only fair that I pass on what we collected. Maybe you'll have better luck than us. They're still just children.” A quick, shuddering breath. “So please... save them.”

Mike flinches and jerks his head up. “Save who?”

There's no answer. The room is empty. He sits up in his seat and clutches the folder to his chest as the noises of the hospital begin filtering back in. Footsteps. Mechanical buzzing. Distant conversation. He hadn't even noticed their absence.

Did he... did he dream that? No. He can't have. His hands are still tight around the folder. He should probably hide that before someone notices it. Mike gets up, tucking the folder casually under his arm, and makes his way toward the door. He'll just... wait outside for a while. Try and think of a hiding place for this. Somewhere neither his employers nor Aunt Sharon will be able to find it. As he slips out the door, those two words linger in the back of his mind.

Save them.