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"Calm down, Detective. I understand you're upset, but please — listen. As I said before-"
His thoughts are a blur. He can’t focus.
"You think I give a damn about your bullshit?! Fuck you and get the fuck out of my way!"
Hands trembling. Voice cracking. His chest is tight, heart hammering fast and hard. He doesn't even realise he's moving until his fingers grab the man's coat, sinking deep into the thick fabric.
"De-detective, please. I know this is hard, but…"
"I swear to God, if you don't move right now, you're gonna regret this. Even if it's the last goddamn thing I do!"
The man's gaze snaps open, shocked and afraid. He swallows hard, a dry click sounding in his throat as he meets the heartbroken plea in the detective’s flickering eyes.
"I-I'm sorry! We’re trying, alright? But there are limits and-"
"You little son of a bitch!"
With a clenched fist, the cop swings into action, prepared to fight his way through if he has to. He doesn’t remember curling his fist, but now it’s there - tight, ready, trembling. The urge to act, to strike, to do something pulses through him like static.
His knuckles turn white. Then…
"Enough, Gavin. Let him go."
Instead of beating the shit out of this prick in front of him, a firm hand on his elbow suddenly holds him back - warm, strong and resolute. It's the kind of touch that leaves no room for any compromise.
Gavin freezes mid-step, his shoulders tight with held aggression. His fist still clenched. Painfully, his breath scrapes against the inside of his throat.
"I can imagine how you feel," he hears Hank Anderson say, his voice cutting through the tension hanging in the air. A little softer now. But still heavy, still resolute. "But you're not helping anyone like this. C'mon, kid. Drop it. Gavin."
Out of the burning corner of his eye, he sees a barely noticeable shake of the older man's head.
Grinding his teeth so hard it hurts, Gavin feels his whole body trembling - more than ever before in his life. Everything in him screams to knock this guy out. But it wouldn’t change a thing. Not one damn thing. And yet…
He exhales, shaky.
"You don’t have a fuckin’ clue how I feel," he spits, barely holding himself together.
For a moment, no one speaks.
For a long heartbeat, Hank's grip tightens, then loosens as Gavin's anger breaks like a wave. His fist uncurls. Slowly. Reed doesn’t resist anymore as Hank finally pulls him back, away from the pale, shaken tech.
As he does so, the older man mutters comforting phrases.
"Good, that's good. Take a deep breath. In and out. You'll be fine… He'll be fine…"
With surprising gentleness, he places a hand on his shoulder - squeezing it lightly, and through this, offering him more than words ever could.
But it doesn't help. Not really.
"Fuck! Fuckin’ hell…that can be true...no…no way…"
Gavin feels so friggin' dizzy. He tries to shake Hank off, but his knees are so weak that he has to brace himself against one of the glaring white walls around him.
Gasping for air, he closes his eyes and tries to control his rising panic. He can't lose his head now. Hank 's right. It wouldn't help anyone if he freaks out now. Especially not Nines.
Nines. Nines. Nines. Nines.
Gavin's chest immediately cramps as he thinks of his partner, his anchor, his heart. Fuck. Fuck! A new wave of nausea rolls over him. His stomach turns, breath hitching. He still can't think straight - every thought scattered, useless.
All he knows for sure is that Nines is somewhere behind that fucking door.
Damaged. Condition critical. Damaged. Condition critical.
Gavin doesn't understand how this can be. This can’t be real. Everything was fine yesterday. They’d spent a beautiful day together - shared every second of it. The last thing Gavin saw, the last thing he felt, was Nines beside him as they drifted off to sleep.
They were happy.
Everything was fine. Nines was fine.
Lie. Nothing more than a dirty, goddamn lie.
"Okay, asshole. How long?" Taking a deep breath, he finally manages to get Anderson off his back. His own voice - weak, almost pathetic - sounds like something that doesn’t belong to him. "How long will it take you to patch up that plastic idiot?"
The technician grimaces, visibly unhappy with the situation.
"Uh, well... it’s not that simple, I’m afraid." He shifts uncomfortably, eyes darting between Gavin and Hank, searching for the right words. "As I mentioned before, the damage is extensive. We managed to stabilize him, more or less. So, the real problem is… he’s… well…"
He hesitates.
"Yeah? He’s what?" Hank keeps pressing, voice sharp. Snow still clings to his hair - soft, untouched, not melted yet.
Gavin bites his lip, saying nothing. He just can't.
The techie, who looks just old enough to be legally allowed to drink, sighs.
"The problem is that we don’t have any spare parts for this special prototype on hand. Usually, we would have to source them externally first, which can take some time."
Hank shoots a quick look at Reed. Restlessly, the gray-haired man rubs his sweaty neck, repeatedly clearing his throat.
"Shit. But, uhm, as soon as you have the parts…? You… you can fix him, though? He’ll be okay, right?"
Time stands still.
Gavin hears his pulse rushing in his ears.
"Probably, yes." A shadow of regret passes over the technician’s babyface. "Apart from his memory. His processing unit is pretty much corrupted. If we try... As I tried to explain to the Detective, there are very strict protocols for cases like this. I'm really sorry…"
Hank blinks, confused.
"Whoa, stop. Stop! What are you talking about?" A deep crease appears between his brows. "What the hell do you mean by cases like this?"
Tech-guy swallows. He nervously fiddles with the lapels of his coat.
"I'm... I’m sorry... but according to our information, your colleague, the RK900..." Tentatively the guy places a hand on his right temple, avoiding their eyes. "As… as far as we know… he… he tried to kill himself. Headshot."
Suddenly something warm is burning at the corners of Gavin’s eyes, raw and impossible to ignore. He doesn’t want to hear it. Can’t believe it.
Headshot. Nines tried to kill himself.
Lie. Nothing more than a dirty lie.
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