#wrecker001

Perceptor remembered her, perched hapahazardly on Ironfist as they sailed away from the hellfire pit of Garrus 9. Remembered her climbing up on berths when the nightmares grew to be too much and remembered her tiny voice cutting like razor wire through the flickers of death and burning that sometimes rose before the optics of the unit.

His optics felt heavy and damp, and the heel of one hand moved to dry the better of the pair. Gently, ever so gently- like a child with a dusk butterfly in their clutches, he carefully scooped Verity into his hands.

He hurt. He hurt like when Ironfist had gone still and he hurt like when Top Spin and Twin Twist had gone cold and he hated how he hurt... He hated the acrid tang of regret in his intake and cradled cold little Verity in his hands.

“I’m sorry.”, he whispered.

He had no other words, no other words for an empty husk laying still in his hands like petrified bones lost to time.

They found him, asleep with his back against the table. Sitting on the floor with his legs crossed- Verity’s body curled on his shoulder and the temperature of ice.

A medic reached out, frowning, to pluck the dead organic from Perceptor’s frame only to find a pistol’s barrel nestled perfectly between their surprised optics.