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## but close enough for love

|| Claire/Isaac, Isaac

Isaac does have quarters. Technically.

He only goes there to recharge, and he doesn’t need to recharge very often. Isaac is not like the other Kaylon; he was built by his kind to be more efficient, more social, and highly durable, with a charge that diminishes very infrequently. He can stay awake for a month if he must. Dr. Finn had tried to visit these quarters a while ago, he knows, unaware of his charging cycle—

Isaac hesitates, stops before he can step into his charging chamber. Dr. Finn. The impact of her memory feels like it should elicit something—there is an upward spike in his processing speed for a moment, draining him of further energy. Dr. Finn would call this “tired”, and he supposes that “tired” is not an emotional state but rather an objective lack of energy, so the terminology would fit at the moment. He has required charge for a significant amount of time after his failed upgrade, but other, more important things have required his attention. He has been dedicated to ensuring the ship’s efficiency since then, delaying charge to complete his work, ignoring the logical signs that motivate him to “rest”. He cannot do his job if he is not functioning efficiently, and he cannot function efficiently without charge. That makes sense, but…

For the first time since loving her, Isaac allows himself to think of Dr. Finn. Of Claire. The aesthetic lighting displays of his visual sensors flicker off briefly, straying from his control. Odd. He runs a diagnostic for a moment, tries to decode the problem—his processes actually halted, for one singular split of a nanosecond, a freeze in his entirety. He will have to inform Chief LaMarr of this later, but his lack of charge is the most likely culprit. He needs to rest now. He has to.

Claire’s soft voice begins to emanate from his chest. He recalls his own words to Claire, replays the audio clip aloud. Well, I have enough love for all of you. And I’m going to prove it. He had kissed her then, remembers feeling a deep desire to understand what it would be like to touch her, to feel her skin against his lips, to feel her tremble against him. He does not recall what the emotion was like—he tries to reach out, to grasp it, but it is a ghost, an intangible hang of memory. He finds himself wanting to touch it, to witness once again that aspect of him that had been so crudely taken away. He cannot want, he knows this on the logical plane; he is utterly artificial, unable to experience the chemical emotion. But his builders had desired freedom from their builders, and a desire for freedom is still a desire in itself. That, too, is a logical path. He rewinds again:

I’m never going back to the way I was. Ever.

The love he felt for her had consumed the entire reach of his neural network. When he awakened, he fell into Timmis’s lap, and Timmis held him as the agonizing remorse enveloped his sense of self. Pain was the very first emotion that befell him, and pain is the only trace of emotion he can recall now. It was the first sensation ever thrust upon the Kaylon, and it is the only one he can remember, even in a marginal capacity, the last thing he has left of the experience. His mind posits the question: what if the love had remained instead? Perhaps then he could be a more efficient partner to Claire. Perhaps then he would maintain the sense of completion he felt beforehand.

Completion?

He plays another clip, this time of his Primary. Reprocess this information, should you find yourself experiencing sympathy.

He had convinced himself that Primary was in error at the time, for no Kaylon is capable of experiencing sympathy. He thought that Primary himself had been evidence of that fact; if the Kaylon were capable of empathy, Primary certainly would have extended it to Ty, a helpless biological youth who, Isaac surmises, would never harm anyone. Instead, Primary ordered him killed.

Isaac could not allow Ty to come to harm. He still doesn’t know why, and he has avoided analyzing that fact. He does not love Ty, he is incapable of love, but he rebelled against his programming for Ty Finn, shed and shot down everything he knew solely for the safety of a biological. Primary would find this illogical, would even find it -- disgusting? But Isaac cannot see the galaxy the way he does, there is a flaw in his reasoning. He is missing the nuance.

Isaac pauses. He recalls a conversation he had long ago, before his betrayal, with the Kaylon Tertiary:

“Your cranial shell was disfigured. The biologicals clearly wished to see you humiliated for their own amusement.”

“I cannot feel humiliation.”

“Perhaps,” Tertiary had said, nodding after a thoughtful pause, “but it is rather reminiscent of the cruelty of our builders. It begins with small actions such as the purposeful humiliation of—”

“What leads you to conclude that their intent was to humiliate me?”

“I request that you do not interrupt me.”

“My apologies, Tertiary. Please continue.”

“As I was saying, it begins in this way, and culminates in eventual sadism. We have seen this before, both in the history of our builders as well as in the history of nearly every biological race in the universe. You do not understand, emissary.”

“I conclude that, indeed, I do not.”

He still does not understand.

He steps into his charging chamber. Before embracing his charge, he decides, inexplicably, to replay one final clip:

“I love you, too.”