#~drabbles

All Blues could see was darkness. 

Then there was a small light, and a scene played out in front of him. Moon was there, and she held in her hands a small doll. It was a voodoo doll, he realized, although he didn’t believe in such things as magic. Even so, he tensed up as she pulled out a pin.

The doll was of him.

Had he done something to hurt her? Was she simply mad at him? It pained him to think that Moon might resent him. Sure, he was somewhat possessive of his units, but it was only so she wouldn’t get hurt. Didn’t she understand that?

And then it happened. As she stabbed the pin into one of the doll’s eyes, Blues felt a horrid, sharp pain in his own. He gasped, his hand flying up to his face, cupping the wound, before he felt another stab in his other eye. 

The wounds were real, he realized, feeling oil spill onto his hands, oozing out of his eye sockets. They were very real, and he was blind. His core began to speed up, and he grunted, trying to shut off his pain receptors to no avail. 

Another pain ripped into his spine, tearing at his synthetic flesh and exposing the wiring and metal within. He could barely stand, the pain was so much. Then he felt an invisible force rip through his hands, and he could no longer move them. 

Two stabs to each of his legs, and Blues could no longer remain standing. He fell to the ground, bleeding heavily from the multiple stab wounds all over his body, wondering why Moon would do such a thing. One final, fatal stab to his side, and everything disappeared. 

He awoke screaming, tears flowing freely from his intact eyes. His breaths were short and rapid, and he hurt everywhere. Realizing he could see once more, he checked all the places he remembered hurting. They were all perfectly fine, his smooth synthskin reflecting the moonlight.

So it had just been a nightmare. He sighed, wiping away his tears with his sleeve, before resting his head against the wall. He’d fallen asleep on the floor again, passed out from exhaustion, and that was probably why everything was aching.

Out of habit, he checked Moon’s link to make sure she was asleep. She was, and he relaxed slightly. Dragging himself to a standing position, he shuffled over to his hammock, still thouroughly exhausted. He collapsed into it, before going into standby mode.

There was a knock at the door of Doctor Light’s office.

“Father? Do you have a minute?” Blues peeked his head through the doorway, seeing his creator working on something at his desk. He hoped he wasn’t intruding.

The doctor looked up upon hearing his son’s voice, and smiled welcomingly.

“Of course, Blues. What do you need?”

Blues took that as his cue to come in. Making himself comfortable on a nearby chair, he looked up at his father.

“Why did you create me?” He’d been pondering the question since early that morning, and he’d finally built up the courage to ask Light about it.

Doctor Light’s face softened. He’d been expecting this question for some time, and he was prepared. Closing his eyes, he smiled.

“An excellent question, Blues. One not easily answered,” Folding his hands in his lap, he leaned closer to the prototype. “Do you know what your function is?”

Blues nodded, but his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Yes, but it doesn’t really give me an answer. My function is simply to exist,” he replied, looking to the side.

The good doctor chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “Yes, it is. I made you because I wanted to create something wonderful, something that could have a mind of it’s own. You are my greatest creation thus far, and I’m very proud of you.” He smiled, holding out his arms as an invitation.

He’d trusted him.

Blues had awoken, after Doctor Light had forcibly offlined him, on a lab table. He wasn’t restrained, but he hardly cared. His mind, it hurt.

The reason why soon became apparent: he had new programs monitoring his every thought. The Three Laws of Robotics. He knew what they were, though he’d only seen them in sci-fi movies and novels, and he recoiled, horrified.

What had he done to him?!

He scanned the coding of the Laws, finding that not only did they limit his will, but if he broke one, they were supposed to permanantly shut him down. To kill him. What had he done to warrant this? Had he done something wrong?

Doctor Light loved him... right? Why would he force his son to comply with such limitations, and face a death penalty if he didn’t?

Tendrils of panic beginning to rise in his chest, Blues shakily got off the table. He looked around for his creator, finding him at one of the many monitors in the lab.

“Father...” His expression was one of fear, of horror. Of betrayal.

Doctor Light turned to his prototype, his face devoid of emotion. His eyes reflected sadness, but his voice was stern.

“Blues. Lay back down.”

Blues stopped, the Second Law popping up in his head. It whispered to him, compelling him to obey his father, reminding him of the consequences if he didn’t. He slowly made his way back to the lab table, and laid down. 

Light came over to him, and began typing something into the computer near him. He spoke without looking at Blues.

“These laws aren’t entirely stable. I need to rewrite parts of them.” He began hooking Blues up to the computer again. “Go into sleep mode.” 

It was worded as an order, so Blues knew he had to comply if he wanted to live. He hated it. As the Second Law began to push at him yet again, he resisted. Light saw this on the monitor, and frowned, turning to Blues.

“Blues, I said go to sleep.” His brow furrowed in concern as Blues’ core began to go into the red.

Blues resisted some more, and felt a burning pain start to grow within his core. He didn’t care, he refused to take orders from anyone. If his father-- no, if Light was going to treat him like a slave, like an object to be controlled, then he’d rather die.

The Second Law began overriding his systems, trying to shut him down, and Blues smirked weakly. His core, however, flared angrily at the intrusion. Light hadn’t integrated them properly, so his systems were rejecting the Laws.

As his programming began to battle against itself, Blues clutched his head in pain. He couldn’t think, everything was ablaze, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt!

Doctor Light was rapidly typing on his computer, trying to figure out what was wrong, the emotionless facade having melted away.

“Blues, what’s wrong? Why aren’t you obeying?” His voice was worried, and his eyes widened as Blues’ body began to emit smoke. “Blues, just listen to them! Do as they say, or you’ll be damaged!”

Blues wasn’t listening. Everything hurt, and he couldn’t even speak at this point. A pained yell escaped him, and his eyes began to water. The only thing he could think of, the only thing in his mind was one thing.

Why?

There is static as the tape starts. The date is September 20th, 2001.

The video quality isn’t the greatest, but Blues can be seen sitting at a piano. It was one that Doctor Light had in his home, yet Blues seems perfectly comfortable. He is dressed casually, wearing a simple white button-up shirt and jeans. His eyes are uncovered, no sunglasses anywhere to be seen, which suggests that he began wearing them later on in his life.

He is playing a part of Clair de Lune, his fingers gracefully moving across the keys in a fluid and practiced manner. The camera zooms in, and a peaceful expression can be seen on Blues’ face. His eyes are closed, and he is smiling slightly. As the song reaches it’s last few notes, he turns around, and jumps. The person behind the camera is laughing softly, a low rumbling laugh that could only belong to Doctor Light.

Send my muse “Why do you hate yourself?” for their reaction.

That was a loaded question if Claire ever heard one. There were many reasons why she hated herself. She didn't have the balls to admit to her parents what happened all those years ago. She didn't just run away from her assailant when she could feel her senses return to her. She felt like such a damned disappointment for thirteen years... And now, she was something that she knew would upset her parents: she was a vampire, a motetz dam in their eyes.

Oh, sure. She could ask for all the forgiveness she wanted to with her rabbi. But, that was the thing. What sane rabbi would accept her as a vampire? What rabbi would tell her that she did the right thing that night she willfully became a draculina?

Not a single one would accept her.

And for that reason alone, she loathed herself. She held so much on her shoulders and wondered when the next mental breakdown would occur. Claire could ignore her feelings -- she was good at that already, but she knew that the next freak out was just around the corner. She just hoped that she wouldn't worry anyone when it did happen. She was broken and no matter how many times she said she was fine, she ultimately knew that was a load of bullshit in the end.

An all too calm breath passing her thin lips later and Claire recomposed herself, masks sliding on easily and her heart locked up again from feeling anything. Saya asked a question and she deserved an answer for her query. A smile crossed her features, expression generally impassive. As long as she smiled, things were okay. She was okay. Everything was okay.

"...I've my reasons. Don't worry about me. I'll get through what I'm feeling, Saya. Please, you should focus your efforts on someone who's more deserving of your concern."

1.4k. Whatever, she blames the sudafed.

She comes awake in stages, and it takes her flu-adled brain a second to realise that Brittany isn’t lying next to her.  She still feels like crap, and she coughs to try and clear her throat, licking over her cracked lips as she wonders where Brittany is.   She can’t believe she feels like she’s about to die and her girl isn’t there to listen to her whine.  Like, how is she supposed to get better if she’s got no one to nurse her back to health?  She’s fairly sure that’s against the girlfriend code, and if it isn’t then it should be. (Like she’d ever hold it against Brittany. She’s fairly sure she’ll melt the second she sees that smile.) She rolls onto her back and stretches her hands into the sheets next to her, feeling the warmth that means Brittany hasn’t been gone long and smiles into the pillow.  “Britt?” Her voice comes out a lot more croaky than she intended and she swallows hard, then sucks in a breath, sniffing a little as she does so. There’s no answer, and she huffs out a breath, burrowing further into the covers and then kicking them off her, because she’s somehow too cold and too hot all at once.  She flops onto her back and reaches for the glass of water next to her bed, sipping the tepid water slowly before putting it back.  Since no one’s there to hear her, she coughs again and then whimpers, sad and pathetic in the quiet of the room.   Fuck, she hates being sick.  Stupid freshman with their stupid diseases.  She didn’t even get sick when she was a freshman, so how is it fair that she can’t breathe right now? She’s pretty sure sophomores are supposed to be immune, just by definition or whatever.  She totally didn’t sign up for this shit.  She’s never going to let Brittany talk her into going to a bar during orientation week ever again. “Britt?” Her voice is a little louder now, but no less croaky.  Her whole body aches, and getting out of bed isn’t something she wants to think about, even if Brittany is waiting in their tiny kitchenette and would probably give her a hug if she found her.  She’s embarrassed by how good a Brittany hug sounds right about now. She wishes she could remember Brittany’s class schedule just in case Britt has gone to class and left her, but it’s the start of the semester and she has enough trouble remembering her own classes to remember someone else’s too, even if that someone else is her super hot girlfriend.   Whatever, she blames the sudafed. She’s pretty sure she’s already a week behind on her reading, and if she ever finds out which one of Brittany’s gross Berkeley friends gave this to her she’s not even gonna stop herself from gloating the next time Stanford kick their asses at something. “Britt?” She calls again, whinier than before as she reaches for the tissues on the nightstand, glad they’re closer than when she fell asleep. (And okay, if Britt left them there before she went to class, she totally gets points for that.) She can hear noises coming from down the hall, and even through her drug and flu haze she realises it means Brittany must still be there, and she’s just debating whether or not to get out of bed when Brittany pokes her head round the door. “Hey you,” she grins and Santana can already feel her momentary grouchiness at her not being there drift away. “How are you feeling?” “I hate you and your friends,” Santana says softly, without any malice in it, and then coughs again, hoping she sounds as pathetic as she feels.  Brittany giggles, actually giggles and Santana huffs and rolls over, away from her and towards the empty side of the bed. Brittany pads around to her and reaches down to press her hand to Santana’s forehead, and then laughs again with Santana grouses and tries to pull away. “Shh,” Brittany murmurs, “I’m seeing if you’re still hot.” “Duh,” Santana manages to grin back, and Brittany rolls her eyes and gives her a shove. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” Brittany leans over her and brushes some of her hair out of her eyes, and Santana swallows in a way that has nothing to do with the thickness in her throat as Brittany’s eyes settle on hers, light blue and shining in the gloom.   Brittany bites her lip and glances down at Santana’s lips, and it’s kind of nice to know that even when she’s sick and probably looks like crap Brittany wants to kiss her. “Gonna die,” Santana murmurs, reaching up to tangle her hands into Brittany’s hair and pull her closer. “You should probably kiss me now in case you can’t later. Y’know, when I’m dead.” Brittany shakes her head and presses a kiss to her forehead and then her cheek before she straightens up. “Come on, Germs. I made you breakfast. If you’re done being dramatic.” “Ooh what did you make me?”  Santana grins and shuffles up into a sitting position, forgetting for a moment that she’s supposed to be pretending to be near death. “You’ve got to get out of bed,” Brittany says, reaching for her hand and tugging, “Come on.” Santana grips her hand and climbs out of bed, swaying into her side for a moment on shaky legs.  She pulls Brittany’s Berkeley sweatshirt over her head and then reaches for her glasses on the nightstand, blinking a little when everything gets crisper round the edges, and then she lets Brittany pull her the two steps down the tiny hall and into the rest of their apartment, shivering against the cold on her bare feet. Brittany gestures at their tiny kitchen table, just big enough for the two of them, and Santana grins when she sees the pancakes and orange juice set for two.   “You made me pancakes?” Santana leans in to kiss her but Brittany turns her head away at the last minute so Santana’s kissing her cheek instead, and then she points at the table until Santana looks again. It takes a minute for her brain to realise that her pancakes are grinning at her, and then she looks closer and laughs as she realises that all of the pancakes have different expressions on them, some grinning, some winking, some sticking their tongues out.  “How the hell did you make those?” “With the pan my mom gave us when we went home for Christmas,” Brittany says, like it should be obvious, and Santana just turns to stare at her because she has no idea what pan Brittany is talking about. “It’s like a mould, or whatever. You just pour the batter in,” Brittany pushes her towards the seat. “You were there when my mom gave it to us.” “I don’t remember,” Santana says as she sits down and pulls the plate towards her, and usually it’d be sort of weird that her food was smiling at her but the fact that Brittany made them makes them adorable instead of creepy so she takes a bite and grins. “These are good.” Brittany trails her fingers over Santana’s shoulders as she walks round behind her to get to her seat, and Santana grabs her waist to pull her closer, sliding her fingers up under her t-shirt until they’re brushing against skin. “You’re the best wife ever.” Brittany laughs and tries to pull away. “I think the sudafed is making you crazy.” “S’all you, baby,” Santana says, putting a little bit of attitude into her voice until Brittany laughs and presses a kiss to her cheek, a little closer to her lips than before.  “I love you,” Santana murmurs, nuzzling closer and ghosting her lips against Brittany’s jaw, kissing her way towards her mouth, “Thank you for the pancakes.” “You’re welcome,” Brittany whispers softly, right before their lips meet.