roberta tends to lead, inconveniently, with her mouth. it slows her processing to a near standstill  ---  she drags herself through the thick distraction of her own words like boots through mud, arrives at every realization late and with plenty backpedaling to do.

it’s moments like these, forcing human reaction, that remind her how far from human she really is. the roll of a chill up her spine. the climbing anxiety. nausea, prickling sweat, teeth fighting to chatter.

         ‘ i thought i recognized... ’

she’s come around to the front of him, now, and takes each observation like a punch to the gut. visible injuries aside, something feels very different. something is very wrong.

my baby, she thinks, her heart already breaking. what have they done to my baby.

         ‘ loki. ’ a pet name discarded is just about as close as bertie can come to uttering the words, ‘i’m afraid.’ ‘ what happened? ’